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?
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.
First Impression
- The language in this poem by George Keats is hard to interpret. I feel like Keats is explaining someone's ashes in an urn. Furthermore, Keats is describing the urn itself. Finally, Keats pays special attention to the shape of the urn.
Paraphrased
Your untouched motionless position,
The foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who can’t express you
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What legend made your shape
Of deities, or mortal, or both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens opposed?
What mad pursuit? What struggles to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
Melodies that are heard are sweet, but unheard melodies are sweeter: therefore your melodies, play on;
No the physical ear, but more internal.
A song with no tone from the pipe:
Fair youth, under the trees, you cannot leave
Your song, and not even these trees can be bare;
Bold lover, never cannot kiss you,
Though winning near the goal- yet do not grieve;
She cannot fade, because of your bliss,
For when your love fades, she will be fair!
Ah, happy, happy, limb! That cannot shed
Your leaves, did not tell the spring goodbye;
And happy melodist, enduring,
For every song is new and exciting
More happy love! A happier love!
Forever warm and forever enjoyed,
From above are the angels,
That leaves a sorrowful heart,
A burning headache, and a dehydrated tongue.
Who are coming to these sacrifices?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead you to that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
And what town, either by river or by the sea shore,
Or one built on a mountain with a peaceful citadel,
Is empited of this folk, this virtuous morn?
And little town, your streets little by little
Will be silent; and not a soul to tell
Why your art is barren, and ever return.
O loft shape! Fair attitude! With brede
Of marble, emotional men and women,
With forest branches and crushed weeds;
You, in silent form, dare tease us out of thought
As your eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall eradicate this generation,
You shall remain, in spite of other misery
Than ours, a friend to man, in which you said,
“True beauty is beautiful,” – that is all you know on earth, and all you needed to know.
Syntax and Word Choice
- The poem is written into 5 stanzas. Furthermore, the poem is written in 1st person point of view. The word choice is somewhat difficult to comprehend. Keats uses a load of Shakespearean words like doth, thou, and thy.
Imagery
- This poem contains a number of visual imagery. For example, Keats describes the figure of the urn. One example of this is "What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?" Also, the urn itself signifies beauty and truth.
Figurative Language
- The poem includes paradox and rhetorical questions. Two examples of paradox in the poem are "Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard/ Are sweeter..." and "That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd..." One example of rhetorical question is "Who are these coming to the sacrifice?"
Tone
- The tone of this poem can be described as mourning and descriptive. One example of the author's tone is "Ah, happy, happy, broughs! That cannot shed/ Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu."
Theme
- The theme, or rather the moral of the poem, can be found in the last two lines of the poem. They read "'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all/ Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'" This shows that Keats strongly supports inner beauty and truth.
Conclusion
- Even after using SWIFTT, "Ode on a Grecian Urn" was still difficult to interpret. Although, I was able to see that Keats was describing the shape of the urn, as well as see the moral of the poem. However, the only thing that I wonder is, if the urn was filled with anyone's ashes.
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