John Keates

John Keats was an English Romantic poet whose work continues to captivate readers with its vivid imagery, emotional depth, and lyrical beauty. Born in London, in 1759 Keats showed an early aptitude for poetry and medicine, eventually pursuing both passions concurrently. His poetic career, though brief, was marked by a prolific output and had a  profound influence on the Romantic movement.
Keats’ poetry is renowned for its sensual and imaginative language, often drawing on classical mythology and natural imagery to explore themes such as; love, beauty, and mortality. His most celebrated works include “Ode to a Nightingale,” “Endymion,” and “Ode on a Grecian Urn,” each showcasing his unique ability to evoke powerful emotions through evocative verse.
Despite his untimely death at the age of 25 due to tuberculosis, Keats’ legacy endures as one of the most significant figures in English literature. His poems have inspired generations of writers and continue to be studied and admired for their timeless appeal and artistic brilliance. Keats’ work is a testament to the enduring power of poetry to capture the human experience in all its complexity and beauty. He passed away in Rome on the 23 of February, where he still rests.

Ode on a Grecian Urn

Summary

In the first stanza, the speaker stands before an ancient Grecian urn and addresses it. He is worried about its depiction of images frozen in time. It is the “still unravish’d bride of quietness,” the “foster-child of silence and slow time.” He also describes the urn as a “historian” that can tell a tale. He wonders about the figures on the side of the urn and asks what legend they depict and where they are from. He looks at an image that seems to depict a group of men pursuing a group of women and wonders what their story could be: “What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? / What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?”

In the second stanza, the speaker looks at another image on the urn, this time depicting a young man playing a pipe, lying with his lover beneath a glade of trees. The speaker states that the piper’s “unheard” melodies are sweeter than mortal melodies, as they are unaffected by time. He says  even though the youth will never be able to kiss his lover because he is frozen in time, he should not grieve, because her beauty will never fade. In the third stanza, he views the trees surrounding the lovers and feels rejoyced that they will never shed their leaves. He is content for the piper because his songs will be “for ever new,” and happy that the love of the boy and the girl will last forever, unlike mortal love, which lapses into “breathing human passion” and eventually vanishes, leaving behind only a “burning forehead, and a parched tongue.”

In the fourth stanza, the speaker examines another image on the urn, this depicts a group of villagers leading an ox to be sacrificed. He wonders where they are going (To which green altar, O mysterious priest…) and from where they have come. He envisages their small  town, empty of all its inhabitants, and narrates that its streets will “for evermore” be silent, for those who have left it, frozen on the urn,  for they will never return. In the final stanza, the speaker yet again addresses the urn itself, stating that it, like Eternity, “doth tease us out of thought.” He contemplates that when his generation is long dead, the urn will remain, passing on to future generations its enigmatic lesson: “Beauty is truth, truth beauty.” The speaker says; that this is the only thing the urn knows and the only thing it needs 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.”