Come to the orchard in Spring

"Even though all it takes to fill a life is the sun, the land and a poem." --Kikuchi Masaou.

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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 haunt 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.

Filed under Ode On a Grecian Urn John Keats Beauty is truth Poetry Poem Romantic

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If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

If You Forget Me by Pablo Neruda

 -

I want you to know

one thing.

 -

You know how this is:

if I look

at the crystal moon, at the red branch

of the slow autumn at my window,

if I touch

near the fire

the impalpable ash

or the wrinkled body of the log,

everything carries me to you,

as if everything that exists,

aromas, light, metals,

were little boats

that sail

toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

 -

Well, now,

if little by little you stop loving me

I shall stop loving you little by little.

 -

If suddenly

you forget me

do not look for me,

for I shall already have forgotten you.

 -

If you think it long and mad,

the wind of banners

that passes through my life,

and you decide

to leave me at the shore

of the heart where I have roots,

remember

that on that day,

at that hour,

I shall lift my arms

and my roots will set off

to seek another land.

 -

But

if each day,

each hour,

you feel that you are destined for me

with implacable sweetness,

if each day a flower

climbs up to your lips to seek me,

ah my love, ah my own,

in me all that fire is repeated,

in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,

my love feeds on your love, beloved,

and as long as you live it will be in your arms

without leaving mine.

(via naivetybutyouth-deactivated2013)

Filed under Pablo Neruda Poem Poetry If You Forget Me If you forget lift roots move on love destiny arms still don't