the 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 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. 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! 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."

All is quiet in Arcady It's dark , and somehow there’s a fog The fog lifts and there on centre stage There is a box        Its lovelieness shines all about The faun arrives from centre left to play the dawn in on his pipes and greet the rising of the sun He sees the box and starts in shock Not every day he gets a present He puts the pipes down on the ground And slowly turns the box around He turns the label upside down to see if theres a return address A Mr Keats of Wentworth Place In Arcady we don’t get post A random meteorite at most No address really , no post code No front door -and of course no road So the faun looked at the box So - “Open it “ - the ancient mammal “ Don't open it - I forsee Doom " Tiresieas in usual gloom“  " no good can come of stuff unordered Return to Sender - Send it back “ The Nun says - "why not read the label ?" There isnt a return address she rips it open with a knife and takes out a vase There is a curled up bit of paper And there is a poem written on it The faun stands up and reads it out “  Thou still unravished bride of quietness ... “ The total text is to the left And there was silence in the glade For quite a while “ what does it mean ? " “ I’ve no idea “ Tiresias takes to the floor “ I think it means that all the folks In tunics that are on the vase Are stuck in time forever , as suspended in a kind of jelly Just like a freeze frame on the tv So that action is inferred But nothing actually occurs The leaves don’t fall - it's always Spring They're always young , they don’t get ill So - though they may not feel the force They will be spared Divorce and jail Well - true enough - but even so its just unbearable suspense Ten minutes later - we would know what happens - there is just the sense Where things can just go either way For look - the girls might get away Or they may all be struck by lightning And is that likely ? Hard to say Depends if there are buildings near Or they are underneath a tree Or wearing metal on their heads And if they are ? They’d be struck dead So this is why the sculptor’s caught Them looking lovely and not just A heap of charred and smokey dust And truth is beauty  beauty’s truth and so on in an endless loop “ “ Just like a moebius strip ? “ “ Exactly No more questions ? Lets move on To the next item on agenda Theres a question from the floor About self - intersecting shapes ? Topology ? Ekphrasis ? It is It is what ? ekphrasis

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