|
| 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 dities 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, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; |
| And, happy melodist, unweari-ed, |
| Forever piping songs forever new; |
| More happy love! more happy, happy love! |
| Forever warm and still to be 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. |
