Literacy News from Canada
Children's Literacy Round-Up: May 12

Poetry Friday: Ode to a Grecian Urn

Ode to a Grecian Urn -- Keats

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 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, unwearièd,   
  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,   35
  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.'   

The last two lines of this poem are the most famous. I just ran across them in Eoin Colfer's Half-Moon Investigations, and that reminded me of the poem. You can most likely find other Poetry Friday entries on these sites (all of which participated last week): A Fuse #8 Production; Big A little a; Blog From The Windowsill; Chicken Spaghetti; Farm School; Here In The Bonny Glen; Scholar's Blog; The Simple and the Ordinary.

UPDATE: Here are the actual links to people who submitted poetry this Friday:

If I missed you, drop me a note, and I'll add you to the list. Cheers!