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-fring'd 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 endear'd,
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,
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.
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?
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."
Supposedly this pillar of text holds Keats' model of poetry, how it should be and what it is, but I see a much fairer story therein. Each depiction on the urn takes a romantic stab at people and nature, how they are so at seeming odds, yet necessary to balance in a sort of dance of surival. In response the senses are assailed, each with its own sharp attunement.
The sounds assials hearing, from each mannerism of instrument the festival begins, yet the ritual is lost on you as you dance along, heedless of the end rhytmn that spells out fate. The sound is so serene and near divine as to touch your very soul, to stir it from its keeping with the heart of hearts hidden from even nature. This stirs out the primordial, love, as expressed by the loveliness of your neighboring love, who lies outside your grasp, tantalizing in the tempo of song. The crescendo rises with emotion, joy and happiness, boundless in its entry. Love is to be entertained even further, but not further may you sway forth, as you are exhausted and left wanting. Wordless, the scene parts, as the once familar surroundings become the focus over the rambling din.
All have come to the celebration, all assemble for the passage of nature, much like passion and in mass. Ever more, she persists, away from you and further still, just like all others from mountain and town. But what is this maiden of branch and thorn, what beauty does she hold, what truth is posssessed? The clue lies in the question, as true beauty cannot be reasoned, it simply is and will be. This is simple to know and all you need, but to recieve such understanding would sooner lead to one's own destruction than full comtemplative meaning.
In finally, the poem is indeed an opus of what a poem should be, truly beautiful. Achieveing this is quite natural when taken as such, natural. Though, the story the urn tells is not a fairy tale of epic proportions to which we all are familiar, it holds power in its assailment of what love can mean. More than a simple trinket it is taken in spirit over physicality, where it not only to be understood but take on unconditional meaning. Minus that, you have a simple empty pot that seems nice, but like all ceramics, crumbles soon after maker, leaving ruin where was once such life.
There are many ways one can view this poem, i chose this way to express there can be a story to something "generic," and it can hold subjective over objective perception. Thusly, the poem will likely discern in meaning differently to different people as all things do, but I still hope that even though these things may be analyzed, they are not quite definite not matter how literal they are, or even metaphorical. Although being non-literal can be an aid in this area duely.
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