Thou still unravished bride of quietness,
\nThou foster child of silence and slow time,
\nSylvan historian, who canst thus express
\nA flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
\nWhat leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape
\nOf deities or mortals, or of both,
\nIn Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
\nWhat men or gods are these? What maidens loath?
\nWhat mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
\nWhat pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?<\/p>\n
Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
\nAre sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
\nNot to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
\nPipe to the spirit dities of no tone.
\nFair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
\nThy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
\nBold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
\nThough winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve;
\nShe cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss
\nForever wilt thou love, and she be fair!<\/p>\n
Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
\nYour leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
\nAnd, happy melodist, unweari-ed,
\nForever piping songs forever new;
\nMore happy love! more happy, happy love!
\nForever warm and still to be enjoyed,
\nForever panting, and forever young;
\nAll breathing human passion far above,
\nThat leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
\nA burning forehead, and a parching tongue.<\/p>\n
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
\nTo what green altar, O mysterious priest,
\nLead’st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
\nAnd all her silken flanks with garlands dressed?
\nWhat little town by river or sea shore,
\nOr mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
\nIs emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
\nAnd, little town, thy streets for evermore
\nWill silent be; and not a soul to tell
\nWhy thou art desolate, can e’er return.<\/p>\n
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
\nOf marble men and maidens overwrought,
\nWith forest branches and the trodden weed;
\nThou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
\nAs doth eternity. Cold Pastoral!
\nWhen old age shall this generation waste,
\nThou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
\nThan ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say’st,
\n“Beauty is truth, truth beauty”—that is all
\nYe know on earth, and all ye need to know.<\/p>\n
by John Keats, 1795-1821<\/p>\n
—<\/p>\n
This week, as part of the \u2018poetry in response to a work of art\u2019 (aka \u2018ekphrastic) Tuesday series, I am posting one of the great ekphrastic poems, John Keats’ response to a Grecian urn.<\/p>\n
To read a discussion of the significance of the poem and view the urn the Keats poem discusses, please click here<\/a>.<\/p>\n The following link discusses ekphrastic poetry in general and other examples of the form, although the article requires citation: Ekphrasis Wikipedia cites John Keats as “… an English Romantic poet. He was one of the main figures of the second generation of Romantic poets along with Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley, despite his work only having been in publication for four years before his death.”<\/em><\/p>\n
\n<\/a><\/p>\nAbout the Poem:<\/h3>\n