1Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
2 Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
3Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
4 A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
5What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
6 Of deities or mortals, or of both,
7 In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
8 What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
9What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
10 What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
11Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
12 Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
13Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
14 Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
15Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
16 Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
17 Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
18Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
19 She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
20 For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
21Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
22 Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
23And, happy melodist, unwearied,
24 For ever piping songs for ever new;
25More happy love! more happy, happy love!
26 For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
27 For ever panting, and for ever young;
28All breathing human passion far above,
29 That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
30 A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
31Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
32 To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
33Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
34 And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
35What little town by river or sea shore,
36 Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
37 Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
38And, little town, thy streets for evermore
39 Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
40 Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
41O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
42 Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
43With forest branches and the trodden weed;
44 Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
45As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
46 When old age shall this generation waste,
47 Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
48Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
49 "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
50 Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
1Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
2 Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
3Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
4 A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
5What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
6 Of deities or mortals, or of both,
7 In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
8 What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
9What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
10 What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
11Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
12 Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
13Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
14 Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
15Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
16 Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
17 Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
18Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
19 She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
20 For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!
21Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
22 Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
23And, happy melodist, unwearied,
24 For ever piping songs for ever new;
25More happy love! more happy, happy love!
26 For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
27 For ever panting, and for ever young;
28All breathing human passion far above,
29 That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
30 A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
31Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
32 To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
33Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
34 And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
35What little town by river or sea shore,
36 Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
37 Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
38And, little town, thy streets for evermore
39 Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
40 Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
41O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
42 Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
43With forest branches and the trodden weed;
44 Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
45As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
46 When old age shall this generation waste,
47 Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
48Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
49 "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all
50 Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
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."
Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.
More by Keats — A link to more poems by Keats, including his other odes.
Portrait of John Keats by Joseph Severn — A painting done of Keats by his friend and contemporary, Joseph Severn.
Sketch of an Urn by Keats — A sketch by John Keats of the Sosibios urn, which is thought to have partially inspired the poem.
A Contemporary Review of Keats — A link to John Gibson Lockhart's review of Keats's poetry in 1818.
Other Ekphrastic Poems — A collection of poems that also use an ekphrastic approach.