Text:
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 haunt 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?
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 haunt 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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
Initial Response:
Initially, I feel that Keats is describing the nature of an urn that has withstood the test of and reminiscing about the past. I believe he is wishing that the people and events were remain eternal so the joy would always exist.
Paraphrase:
The bride that will always be silent,
The foster-child that will always be silent as time passes,
Sylvan historian, who will never be able to tell
A story more sweet than this rhyme:
What legends are in you
Of gods or humans, or of both,
In the worship place or the valleys of Arcadia?
What men or gods are these beings? What women are they?
What are they looking for? What are they trying to escape?
What songs? What excitement?
The foster-child that will always be silent as time passes,
Sylvan historian, who will never be able to tell
A story more sweet than this rhyme:
What legends are in you
Of gods or humans, or of both,
In the worship place or the valleys of Arcadia?
What men or gods are these beings? What women are they?
What are they looking for? What are they trying to escape?
What songs? What excitement?
Songs that can be heard are beautiful, but those that cannot be heard
Are even more beautiful: therefore, silent instruments, keep playing;
Not for the light ear, but for the more emotionally devoted ones,
Play to the spirit gods:
Young child, beneath the trees that you will never be able to leave
Your song, not even those trees are bare;
Passionate lover, you will never be able to kiss,
Even though you are so close to winning over your love, but do not be sad;
Her beauty will never diminish, even though you will never be able to get her,
You will always love her, and she will always be fair!
Are even more beautiful: therefore, silent instruments, keep playing;
Not for the light ear, but for the more emotionally devoted ones,
Play to the spirit gods:
Young child, beneath the trees that you will never be able to leave
Your song, not even those trees are bare;
Passionate lover, you will never be able to kiss,
Even though you are so close to winning over your love, but do not be sad;
Her beauty will never diminish, even though you will never be able to get her,
You will always love her, and she will always be fair!
Trees that cannot shed
Your leaves, now move past the spring into a different season;
And happy musician, never tired,
Forever playing songs that will always be new;
Love!
It will always be a new love and will always be enjoyed,
It will always be exciting and young;
All humans everywhere,
That leaves sorrowful,
A high fever and a thirsty tongue.
Your leaves, now move past the spring into a different season;
And happy musician, never tired,
Forever playing songs that will always be new;
Love!
It will always be a new love and will always be enjoyed,
It will always be exciting and young;
All humans everywhere,
That leaves sorrowful,
A high fever and a thirsty tongue.
Who are these people who have come to watch the sacrifice?
To what altar, mysterious priest,
Do you lead the sacrifice under the skies,
With her dress and garlands?
What is the small town by the shore,
Or the city built on the mountain,
has come watch this tragedy?
And, small town, your streets will always be
Silent, without a single person to tell
Where everyone in the town went and why they can never come back.
To what altar, mysterious priest,
Do you lead the sacrifice under the skies,
With her dress and garlands?
What is the small town by the shore,
Or the city built on the mountain,
has come watch this tragedy?
And, small town, your streets will always be
Silent, without a single person to tell
Where everyone in the town went and why they can never come back.
The attic! Filled with
men and women distraught,
With the branches of the forest that have been trampled on;
The silence messes with our mind
As does eternity: Cruel Pastoral!
When old age deteriorates our generation,
You will always be here, in our sorrows
A friend to people who say,
“Truth is in beauty, beauty is truth”—that is all
you can know and that is all you need to know.
men and women distraught,
With the branches of the forest that have been trampled on;
The silence messes with our mind
As does eternity: Cruel Pastoral!
When old age deteriorates our generation,
You will always be here, in our sorrows
A friend to people who say,
“Truth is in beauty, beauty is truth”—that is all
you can know and that is all you need to know.
SWIFTT:
{SW} Syntax/Word Choice:
The poem is written in 4 stanzas and has a rhyme scheme of ababcdcdef. The word choice conveys the idea of the urns sadness and inability to speak against it. The poem also contains numerous apostrophe’s, such as, “Sylvan historian,” and “unravished bride.”
{I} Imagery:
The majority of the imagery in this poem occurs when the author was describing the pictures on the urn. The poem contains a plethora of imagery as the author described pictures painted on urns. For example, the author uses the phrases, “happy boughs,” and “happy melodist.” The poem also contains earthly imagery, which can be seen in the phrases, “the trees,” the “happy boughs,” and the “green altar.”
{F} Figurative Language:
In the last line of the poem, the author personifies beauty in the phrase, “beauty as truth, and truth as beauty.”
{T} Tone:
The tone of the poem is very reminiscent. Although the urn enjoyed seeing nature, and everything around him youthful and full of life, he realizes that eventually, these things will wither away and become old.
{T} Theme:
The theme of the poem is that although the urn believed that everything will remain young like the paintings on his body, this is not the truth. The truth is that eventually, things will grow old and wither away.
Conclusion:
After analyzing the poem, the poem is focused about how things around the urn will fade away and die, but how the paintings on the urn will always represent and portray the youthfulness that once was. It will always show that there once was life and joy.
