| THOU still unravish'd bride of quietness, |
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| Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, |
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| Sylvan historian, who canst thus express |
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| A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: |
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| What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape |
5 |
| Of deities or mortals, or of both, |
|
| In Tempe or the dales of Arcady? |
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| What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? |
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| What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape? |
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| What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? |
10 |
| |
| Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard |
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| Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; |
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| Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, |
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| Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: |
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| Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave |
15 |
| Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; |
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| Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, |
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| Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve; |
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| She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, |
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| For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! |
20 |
| |
| Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed |
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| Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; |
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| And, happy melodist, unwearièd, |
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| For ever piping songs for ever new; |
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| More happy love! more happy, happy love! |
25 |
| For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd, |
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| For ever panting, and for ever young; |
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| All breathing human passion far above, |
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| That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, |
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| A burning forehead, and a parching tongue. |
30 |
| |
| Who are these coming to the sacrifice? |
|
| To what green altar, O mysterious priest, |
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| Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, |
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| And all her silken flanks with garlands drest? |
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| What little town by river or sea-shore, |
35 |
| Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, |
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| Is emptied of its folk, this pious morn? |
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| And, little town, thy streets for evermore |
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| Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell |
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| Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. |
40 |
| |
| O Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede |
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| Of marble men and maidens overwrought, |
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| With forest branches and the trodden weed; |
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| Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thought |
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| As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral! |
45 |
| When old age shall this generation waste, |
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| Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe |
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| Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st, |
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| 'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,—that is all |
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| Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.' |
50 |
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