ODE ON A GRECIAN URN I. Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: 5 What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, 10 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? II. Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 15 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; 20 She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, III. Ah! happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed For ever piping songs for ever new; 25 More happy love! more happy, happy love! For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, 30 For ever panting, and for ever young; IV. 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 drest? 35 What little town by river or sea shore, 40 Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn? Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. V. 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 45 As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! 50 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. TO AUTUMN (Written 1819 ?) I. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, eaves run; 5 To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; 10 To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, 15 20 II. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers: And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Steady thy laden head across a brook; Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. III. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— 25 While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 30 And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI (1820) Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, The sedge is wither'd from the lake, II. 5 Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, 10 And the harvest's done. III. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; IV. I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful, a faery's child; 15 Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. 20 V. I set her on my pacing steed, VI. I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. VII. 25 She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna dew; And sure in language strange she said, I love thee true. 30 VIII. She took me to her elfin grot, And there she gaz'd and sighed deep; And there I shut her wild sad eyesSo kissed to sleep. IX. And there we slumber'd on the moss, And there I dream'd, ah woe betide, 35 The latest dream I ever dream'd, On the cold hill side. |