Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1918.djvu/777

 JOHN KEATS

632 Ode on a Grecian Urn

THOU still unravish'd 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 Tempc or the dales of Arcady? What men or gods are these ? What maidens loth ? What mad pursuit" 5 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 bli^s, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair' Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed

Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu, And, happy melodist, unwearied,

For ever piping songs for ever new; More happy love' more happy, happy love' For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,

For ever panting and for ever young; All breathing human passion far above,

That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

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