What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities, or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the vales of Arcady? What men or gods are these? What maidens loth? What mad pursuit? What struggles to escape? What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy? Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone! Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss Though winning near the goal, yet do not grieve- Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Forever piping songs forever new; More happy love! More happy, happy love! Forever panting and forever young; All breathing human passion far above, That leaves a heart high sorrowful and cloyed, 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, Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel, Will silent be; and not a soul to tell 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!" |