I'd like to preface this blog with a little background information. I love this poem. If I had read every poem ever, this would probably still be my favorite. I'm not claiming to be an expert, but let's just say I've done a little explicating.
To bounce off the Coleridge, a little John Keats seemed appropriate. Perhaps Keat's most famous poem, Ode on a Grecian Urn is a literary force to be reckoned with.
When someone quoted Eisenberg during presentations "Pastoral is a dream shattered by shouting in the streets," immediately Keats came to mind.
Keats begins the ode with images of bliss. Words like flowery, sweetly, Arcady, and ecstasy characterize the first stanza. Keats depicts a beautiful scene of lovers who are unable to touch, and yet remain together and ageless in time. The warmth continues throughout the third stanza, with exclamations of happy love, sweet music, and trees which never lose their leaves.
In the fourth stanza however, Keats details the opposite side of the urn with a different tone. The streets of the citadel are empty, and the priest leads a cow to be sacrificed. Keats' final stanza emphasizes the urn's capability to endure time. The urn is bittersweet for Keats because it depicts a world he cannot reach. Keats and his true love, Fanny Brawne, were separated because of his poor health. Keats was forced to move from London to Italy, and he could not see Fanny for fear of spreading his tuberculosis. Although this aspect of his personal life makes the poem mildly tragic, Keats words still manage to depict real beauty. His final two lines, "Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all/ Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know" have given humanity a lot to ponder. Interpretations vary wildly, and experts debate the true meaning because of punctuation discrepancies. One thing is certain: John Keats was an amazingly talented poet, and the scene he describes on the urn is one of true pastoral beauty.
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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