John Keats
Ode on a Grecian Urn
Recited by Chris Moran
| 1 | |
| 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 | 5 |
| 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? | 10 |
| 2 | |
| 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 | 15 |
| 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! | 20 |
| 3 |
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| 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! | 25 |
| 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. | 30 |
| 4 | |
| 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, | 35 |
| 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. | 40 |
| 5 | |
| 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! | 45 |
| 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. | 50 |
To Autumn
Recited by Chris Dombrowski
Recited by Stanley Plumly
| 1 | |
| SEASON of mists and mellow fruitfulness! | |
| Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; | |
| Conspiring with him how to load and bless | |
| With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run; | |
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To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
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5 |
| And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; | |
| To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells | |
| With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, | |
| And still more, later flowers for the bees, | |
| Until they think warm days will never cease, | 10 |
| For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells. | |
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| Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store? | |
| Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find | |
| Thee sitting careless on a granary floor, | |
| Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind; | 15 |
| Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep, | |
| Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook | |
| Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers; | |
| And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep | |
| Steady thy laden head across a brook; | 20 |
| Or by a cider-press, with patient look, | |
| Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours. | |
| 3 | |
| Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they? | |
| Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,— | |
| While barrèd clouds bloom the soft-dying day, | 25 |
| 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; | 30 |
| Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft | |
| The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft; | |
| And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. |