"Ode on a Grecian Urn" John Keats

Vendredi 23 janvier 2009 5 23 /01 /Jan /2009 18:11

"Ode on a Grecian Urn" John Keats

Ode on a Grecian Urn

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."; John Keats

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Par Moicani - Publié dans : L'Odéonie - Communauté : L'Odéonie
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"Ode on a Grecian Urn" John Keats

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