JOHN KEATS

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, 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 its 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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