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Ode on a Grecian Urn

Ode on a Grecian Urn By John Keats

Ode on a Grecian Urn Poem By John Keats,

Who is John Keats? (By Wikipedia)

John Keats (October 1795 – 23 February 1821) was once an English Romantic poet. He was once one of the predominant figures of the 2d technology of Romantic poets, alongside Lord Byron and Percy Bysshe Shelley, regardless of his works having been in the booklet for solely 4 years earlier than his death from tuberculosis at the age of 25.

Although his poems have been no longer usually well-received by means of critics all through his lifetime, his recognition grew after his death, and via the give up of the nineteenth century, he had emerged as one of the most cherished of all English poets. He had a giant have an impact on a various vary of poets and writers. Jorge Luis Borges noted that his first stumble upon Keats’ work was once an outstanding ride that he felt all of his life.

The poetry of Keats is characterized via a fashion “heavily loaded with sensualities”, most quite in the sequence of odes. This is standard of the Romantic poets, as they aimed to intensify severe emotion thru an emphasis on herbal imagery. Today his poems and letters are some of the most famous and most analyzed in English literature. Some of his most acclaimed works are “Ode to a Nightingale”, “Sleep and Poetry”, and the well-known sonnet “On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer”.

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Ode on a Grecian Urn By John Keats

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.”

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