JOHN KEATS

Adieu ! the fancy cannot cheat so well As she is famed to do, deceiving elf. Adieu ! adieu ! thy plaintive anthem fades

Past the near meadows, over the still stream, Up the hill-side ; and now 'tis buried deep

In the next valley-glades : Was it a vision, or a waking dream?

Fled is that music: do I wake or sleep?

��625. Ode on a Grecian Urn

HTHOU still unravish'd bride of quietness, A Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme : What leaf-fringed 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!

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