John Keats, Portrait of William Hilton found here
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-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 loath?
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,
Forever 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,
Forever piping songs forever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
Forever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
Forever panting and forever 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 its 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.
Ode on a Grecian Urn
love chaste bride of the constant silence you,
you foster child from day to day and silence!
Welch flowery Waldgeschichtchen you describe it -
say And sweeter than a Reimer own?
Welch blattumrankte March umstreicht your round
of gods or humans or both
In Tempe or Arcadia slopes?
Who are they, the girls revel in the fear?
chases What is so great? What struggles and escapes so colorful?
Welch flute song? Welch lustberauschtes pressure?
is heard song is sweet, but sweeter
An unheard: gentle flute, continues!
O like you, quietly, more delicious than you, You
ghostly silent-song companion!
You never can, young people and listen to the song, never losing
As the trees their leaves here;
you boldly in love, can never, never kiss you,
So you also close to the goal - but do not be afraid:
She never fades! Will you also have to do without,
If you love beauty and grace she always.
Fortunately tree in eternal springtime,
never fall down your branches leaves.
Fortunately singer, without fatigue
For more fluting always new songs!
And love, love, full of greater happiness:
For more hot and awaiting the fulfillment,
you always chasing, you're always young!
How is back in front of you living greed,
makes the heart sick, in the enjoyment of solidification,
heated the brain and barren scorched tongue!
And who are the priests here
And that heifer? Which thank god
bloom In the Open them with the most beautiful animal sacrifice,
The wreaths the silken flanks?
What small town on the river, in mountains grove
at sea beach, town and castle to military and peace.
Is this pious day with empty streets?
You little town will ever be dumb now, because no
is fated to return home ever
you proclaim, why are you leaving Sun
O Attic shape, as beautiful as ever beheld
To the marble man and girls have grown,
with full branches and trodden herb,
Silent shape! you call us in thoughts,
How Ever it does: Cold pastoral!
Are we then, with our suffering, so find
else you'll be suffering and sorrows
comfort to the people to whom you proclaim this:
Beauty is truth, truth is beautiful "- Not much! ,
Only you know this - and no longer need to know.
transfer of Gisela Etzel
found here
found here
"'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,'-that is all / Ye know on earth, and all ye need to . Know "a famous phrase, used another:" A thing of beauty is a joy for ever: / Its loveliness increase; it will never / Pass into nothingness, but still wants to keep / A bower quiet for us, and a sleep / Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. "This is the beginning of Endymion, and I do not know how often I've already read these verses, probably because they have a kind of hypnotic power infallible.
John Keats died on 23 February 1821 in Rome. He has left some of the greatest poems of English language, as even I can empathize with my meager skills. The Biographical you may read elsewhere, but which nevertheless would hold. Keats was not a shallow aesthetes, but his struggle for beauty was self-assertion in the struggle against poverty, contempt, sometimes even serious illness. He died young at age of 25.
"certainty I have of nothing but the holiness of the impulses of the heart and the truth of the imagination - what the imagination conceived as beauty must be true," he wrote. And: "The excellence of every art is its intensity that it brings access roads, all the unpleasantness disappear to let in that they are closely associated with beauty and truth. See the King Lear by and you will find it exemplified in step" (Found at Horst Höhne: "A thing of beauty is a blessing for ever - Poems of the English and Scottish Romanticism" Leipzig 1983)
He seeks the living and brings it together with the works and stories of the past to a new large its narrative, the coming together to conjure what auseinderfällt which animated nature, the Obsolete, and in the beauty behind things with the sensible, dreaming, seeing and feeling men.
This may sound spans something, but I think, sort of, he must have felt. in any case I found myself confirmed in it by the original observation of the Mr Orientals : "Keats, however, is in everything he writes and does of disarming sincerity. He is so passionate and serious, so thoroughly unironisch as it tend to be very young men. "
Rilke has worked intensively with Keats. At Sidonie Nadherny of Borutin he wrote, "Now comes the Keats-drawing by Joseph Severn ... In the infinite sorrow a Hingegebensein expressed that again comforted, for perfect as it is, it must be a devotion to something in the Life , the sweetness has a power that is right ... "Looking at this drawing of the dying Keats had He wrote the following in his notebook:
executed by the signatories strongly clenched
shadow behind the only translucent face
so comes the night the pure star in good stead.
There's a thing that all interrupts
why things had got on;
because, as it was, see it was not.
O long way to the innocent sacrifice. O
effort to authorized exhaustion.
Keats' grave stone, "Here lies One Whose Name was writ in Water." found here
Why did I laugh tonight? No voice will tell:
No god, no demon of severe response,
Deigns to reply from heaven or from hell.
Then to my human heart I turn at once -
Heart! thou and I are here sad and alone;
Say, wherefore did I laugh? O mortal pain!
O darkness! darkness! ever must I moan,
To question heaven and hell and heart in vain!
Why did I laugh? I know this being’s lease -
My fancy to its utmost blisses spreads:
Yet could I on this very midnight cease,
And the world’s gaudy ensigns see in shreds.
Verse, fame, and beauty are intense indeed,
But death intenser - death is life’s high meed.
Ich lachte heut – warum? Wer says it to me?
No god, no demon, is the answer, says
The dares me from heaven, hell answer!
only silence, - heart, I turn to you,
heart! You and I are sad and alone;
I ask why I laughed? - Well? Well? -
O dark, dark! And I can not rest,
And heaven, hell, heart mock my pain!
I laughed today - why? - Life is short, his blessed
elated enjoyed my spirit -
But would I like to give today the death of me, ripping the
our colorful flags shrill piling
song, fame and beauty
only the throne for King's death - of life highest wage.
transfer of Gisela Etzel
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