Still unravished bride of quietness!
Foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flow'ry tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fringed legend haunts about 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 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:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, canst not leave
song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst kiss,
Though winning near the goal -yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, hast not bliss,
For ever wilt love, and she be fair!

Ah, , boughs! that cannot shed
Your , nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More love! more , love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoyed,
For ever panting and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That a 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 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, streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why 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;
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 sayst,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty, -that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.