ODE ON A GRECIAN URN I. Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness, 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? II. Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard 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! III. 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 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. IV. Who are these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Why thou art desolate, can e'er return. V. O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede 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. TO AUTUMN (Written 1819 ?) I. Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, eaves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, . II. Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook Spares the next swath and all its twined And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep Or by a cyder-press, with patient look, Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. III. Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft The red-breast whistles from a garden croft; And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCI (1820) I. Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, The sedge is wither'd from the lake, II. Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, III. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too. IV. I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful, a faery's child; V. I set her on my pacing steed, VI. I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. VII. She found me roots of relish sweet, VIII. She took me to her elfin grot, And there she gaz'd and sighed deep; And there I shut her wild sad eyesSo kissed to sleep. IX. And there we slumber'd on the moss, |