Beauty is truth, truth beauty,'—that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
Around the 19th century, there was an enormous spike in interest in ancient history and culture. Greek history was especially popular. In this poem, John Keats describes the beauties of various images on a "Grecian Urn" and contrasts an idealistic, romantic world with the realities of the present. Ode is a type of poetry that praises something in an emotional way. Keats had written a number of such Odes.
The silent historian
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?
Keats looks at this imagined vase from ancient Greece that has a lot of stories to tell from its own time and thus a sort of historian. It is utterly quiet, but it bursts with certain truths. The author wonders what might those be. What are those figures depicted? Are they men or gods? What are they doing?
I feel personally attracted to this because whenever I read about ancient history, I feel the book or object is having more truths than we can comprehend. What are those things trying to say.
The beauty of love and our connection to art
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.
Now, Keats' attention shifts to the image of a young boy playing a tune to his lover. Since the image is frozen in the urn, the boy and his lover are forever young. Their tunes are forever new. We cannot hear those tunes but can imagine their sweetness in our minds. This goes into the nature of heart and the mind. Our ability to empathize and simulate things in our head.
An exciting sacrifice and a sad village
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.
Now, Keats shifts to the next image of a priest leading his people to a sacrifice. What kind of sacrifice might it be. (Here I personally think of an ancient Vedic sacrifice with a priest leading the way). As the village folk have gone to the sacrifice, Keats feels sorry for that lonely village which will never see its inhabitants as those village folk are forever in the sacrifice.
The power of art
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."
We will all be gone one day. But, this urn will outlast us probably to eternity. It will continue to communicate with generations we will never know. It will communicate about the power of beauty.
In general, this is the power of art. The ancient literature and artwork has communicated with our ancestors, with those of our generations and with our unknown descendants. It outlasts its creator and the reader. This poem of Keats outlasted Keats himself and so would it us the readers. It would be read by an unknown successor of me 5 centuries from now in the same way. In some sense, that reader whose form I know not and I will share a common bond.
One reason why I love this poem is because my own romantic attitudes towards ancient Indian history and I see each temple and each scripture as something that tries to tell me a story of the past.