ODE ON A GRECIAN URN / John Keats

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-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!

..............

O, Attic shape! fair attitude! with brede
With forest branches and the trodden weed; 
 Thou, silent form! dost tease us out of thoughtAs 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.'