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 | 5 |
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? | 10 |
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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 | 15 |
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! | 20 |
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Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed | |
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; | |
And, happy melodist, unwearièd, | |
For ever piping songs for ever new; | |
More happy love! more happy, happy love! | 25 |
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. | 30 |
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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, | 35 |
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, | |
Is emptied of its 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. | 40 |
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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! | 45 |
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.' | 50 |
Beautiful! Remember those you love
SvarSlett