This might be Keats' most famous poem,
and you can find it in most anthologies
of English poetry:
Thou still unravished bride of quietness,
Thou foster child of silence and slow
time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our
rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about
thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What
maidens loath?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to
escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What
wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those
unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes,
play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more
endeared,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst
not leave
Thy song, nor ever, can those trees
be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst
thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal – yet, do
not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou
hast not thy bliss,
Forever wilt thou love, and she
be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! That cannot
shed
Your leaves, not ever bid the Spring
adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
Forever piping songs forever new;
More happy love! More happy, happy
love!
Forever warm and still be to enjoyed,
Forever panting, and forever
young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful
and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a
parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice:
To what green altar, O mysterious
priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the
skies,
And all her silken flanks with
garlands dressed?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful
citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this
pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for
evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to
tell
Why thou are desolate, can
e’er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! With brede
Of marble men and maidens
overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden
weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out
of thought
As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation
waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of
other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom
thou say’st,
‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty’ – that is
all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need
to know.
The poem with the stressed
syllables underlined:
Thou still unravished bride of quietness,
Thou foster child of silence and slow
time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our
rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about
thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What
maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to
escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What
wild ecstasy?
Heard melodies are sweet, but those
unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes,
play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more
endeared,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst
not leave
Thy song, nor ever, can those trees
be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst
thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal – yet, do
not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou
hast not thy bliss,
Forever wilt thou love, and she
be fair!
Ah, happy, happy boughs! That cannot
shed
Your leaves, not ever bid the Spring
adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
Forever piping songs forever new;
More happy love! More happy, happy
love!
Forever warm and still be to enjoyed,
Forever panting, and forever
young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful
and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a
parching tongue.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice:
To what green altar, O mysterious
priest,
Lead’st thou that heifer lowing at the
skies,
And all her silken flanks with
garlands dressed?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful
citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this
pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for
evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to
tell
Why thou art desolate, can
e’er return.
O Attic shape! Fair attitude! With brede
Of marble men and maidens
overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden
weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out
of thought
As doth eternity. Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation
waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of
other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom
thou say’st,
‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty’ – that is
all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need
to know.
Analysis:
This poem is a good example of how
rhythm can improve a poem. Trying to
read a poem like this like prose would
be hell. The subject of the poem is not
that interesting: the speaker sees an
ancient Grecian urn and imagines the
sort of lost world that created it and
clearly wishes he was in it. It goes on
for a bit too long with the idea, but
reading it with rhythm really makes
to reading less painful. His excitement
seems a bit too much.
Keats for a long time, with Byron
and Shelley, were very much respected
as poems in their time and afterwards.
Byron and Shelley being the wildmen,
and Keats the more sensitive.
© C.A. MacLennan 2024
You can see me reading poems at:
I will post a video of me reading this poem soon
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