but the words just came to my mind, and I looked up the poem again.
It reminds me of what I'm reading now about the beauty of everyday things,
and the profundity hidden in beauty that needs to be contemplated.
The first time I was introduced to this I was probably 13,
in one of the few literature classes that actually stayed with me.
(We had such crap literature teachers in RG;
the few successful lessons, this one with a Mrs. U,
stayed in memory like gems.)
Ode on a Grecian Urn
by John 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-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."
I may have said this before, and not so recently,
but it's so hard to express all the complexity that roils inside,
that sometimes, only art such as this comes close.
Striving to this, to beauty, to goodness, to equanimity,
to all the high virtues, is so bloody hard --
there are days I almost feel like tantrum-ing.
I can't be magnanimous every day.
Sometimes, what people say and how they think,
still cut. And it's exhausting having to rub against this
as a way of life, every single, bloody, day.
Implicit beliefs, perceptions, and thoughts, that you don't want
to subscribe to but are constantly bombarded with anyway.
God, so tiring. Sometimes, one's resources are depleted.
I was thinking last night,
when I find that precious thing...
or when I get married, whenever that may be,
I'd want it to be as small and as quiet as I can get away with.
People ruin beautiful things.
---
not unrelated so I wanted to put this here;
hehe.
God, give us patience.
God, give us friends.
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