Ode on a Grecian Urn

Against sleep and poetry, quote, desultory, genius in the larval stage, unquote.

The Ode on a Grecian Urn he noted, quote, crystallized philosophy of idealism, embalmed anticipation.

The Ode on Melancholy, quote, non-Gothic, not of intellect or disease, emotions, unquote.

Darkling I listen to these faint echoes from a vanished lecture room and ponder, did J. Blank Blank keep his copy of the book, I wonder, and did he annotate it with lively commentary of his own? He left college at the end of our second year, and I have not seen or heard from him these thirteen years.

You can do it, just not in my classroom

You know what? A Grecian Urn is not that interesting

No, and an ode on it, even less so

Yeah.

This recording is in the public domain.

Ode on a Grecian Urn by John Keats.

Read for LibriVox.org. Thou still unravished 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! 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, 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.

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 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.

Art arises, says Auden at one point, art arises out of our dis-- uh, desire for both beauty and truth.

He's thinking of Keats' "Ode to a Grecian Urn." Arises out of our desire for both beauty and truth, and our knowledge that they are not identical.

So art, it, it emerges out of a pluralistic crisis.

We want things two ways.

When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain, Before high-piled books in charactery Hold like rich garners the full-ripened grain, When I behold upon the night's starred face Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows with the magic hand of chance, And when I feel, fair creature of an hour, That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the fairy power of unreflecting love, Then on the shore of the wide world I stand alone and think, Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

Ode on a Grecian Urn Thou still unravished 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 loathe? 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 endeared, pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.

Keats, with all his glory, could not have written Joseph Vance, and Mr.

De Morgan, with all his skill in ceramics, could not have fashioned the Ode on a Grecian Urn.

Sir Thomas Browne, who loved miracles, did not hesitate to classify the supposed importance of the grand climacteric as a vulgar error.

He included a whole quaint chapter on the subject in that old curiosity shop of literature, the Pseudodoxia Epidemica.

Yeah.

He was specifically reading Ode on a Grecian Urn and Ode to a Nightingale while he was drafting Gatsby.

And the structural influence of Keats is undeniable.

It really is.

Because in Ode on a Grecian Urn, Keats writes about a scene painted on ancient pottery.

It's a lover forever chasing a maid and forever frozen just moments before a kiss.

Right.

When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain, Before high-pilèd books in charactery Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain; When I behold, upon the night’s starred face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour, That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love—then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

Ode on a Grecian Urn.

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 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! 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, 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.

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 dress’d? What little town by river or sea shore, 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.