#fair youth. beneath the trees. thou canst not leave. thy song. nor ever can those trees be bare; ... canon/verse 1/university days

[carbondated]

sad headcanon time: basically in my canon pretty much everyone else in the datacore ( except Dr Moon bc ofc Moffat and RTD both stated he is in fact a future incarnation of the doctor. ) die during the process which extracts river's consciousness.

It's the reason Post library River will put off crossing her own time line in order to orchestrate her own resurrection, because of the immense guilt she carries thinking that CAL and her team will die because of her.

It's not until much later in her life when she realises the firewall had fallen and that it was not her transfer that killed everyone but a slow moving virus uploaded to the database days before.

Unlike the others, any doppleganger created from her DNA still has the ability to regenerate and limit the effects of the virus. Meaning that even if she tried to rescue the others like she did herself, they could not survive a transfer out of the database.

Comforted by the knowledge that she did not cause their deaths, River does the only thing she can for them, which is to erase them before the virus can consume them. It's a painless process and she allows them each a proper goodbye before she does it, giving them all the choice. CAL was the last to go. River will always love them and she cherishes the time they spent in the datacore together.

[carbondated]

Something was wrong. Something was terribly wrong. The word persisted in the back of her mind, her own voice screaming it back at her, trapped under the weight of a force she couldn't remember. WRONG! WRONG! WRONG! This world, her memories, the facility. But not him. Everything except Dr Moon was foreign to her.

But that was impossible. They'd only just met today, here at the facility .... no wait. She frowned, staring at him for a full second, trying to make sense of things.That was years ago now. In the datacore, consciousness was pliable, putty in the hands of a child that didn't quite grasp the gravity of the situation. River Song inhaled, Mrs Song let that breath go. Gone in a matter of seconds, replaced with memories of a life well lived, a perfect marriage to a pilot, David, who was off currently on a flight to Lima, leaving her at home with their exceptionally bright little girl, Charlotte Abigail.

. ❝ Yes of course .... ❞ She smiled winningly, cup of tea extended to Doctor Moon. A compensation prize, he'd come all this way for nothing, poor soul. ❝ Well, I'm perfectly cured now Doctor Moon as you can s- ❞

Her hand brushed against his ever so slightly as she handed over the cup and for a moment, for just a fraction of a second, the system's clever little illusion came undone.The data struggled to process itself in her head, garbling out a string of nonsensical words, broken thoughts from a different life ... Hello Sweetie ... It's okay, it's not over for you. you'll see me again ... When you love the Doctor, it's like loving the stars themselves .... River gasped, hand visibly shaking. The cup tipped out of her grasp, falling to the ground to shatter at their feet. For one fleeting moment, the world had come rushing back to her and then it was gone again. . ❝ Oh god... sorry, I don't know what came over me then. Here, I'll make you another. ... stay for dinner why don't you? I've forgotten Charlotte is staying at a friends tonight, it'd be a shame to let things go to waste. ❞

" of course, river. " feels more natural than mrs song, like something he has said many times. " the doctor? "again, feels weird. like he the phrasing of it carries weight. he is a doctor, of course, just a doctor. not the, he's not certain what that would entail. " doctor moon, yes. "

he's quick to sit down at her urging, setting his small notepad on the table. " yes, it will. " he feels the air shifting, like the world is restructuring around him. silly feeling, just a bit of vertigo. " well, i think we've sorted everything we need to. " what? he just sat down, didn't he? no, of course, they've been chatting for an hour...haven't they?

" you'll be at your home, watching your favourite shows before you know it. " he says, offering an assuring smile... before he sits down on her couch. " oh, nothing more than a routine check-up. i do like to make sure my patients are doing well. " rain smacks against the window, just like at the facility. funny, it feels like it was just yesterday he was discharging her. just like yesterday.

[max-reblogger]

Ode on a Grecian Urn I 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 the shape Of deities or mortals, or of both, In Tempe or the dale 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? II Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, plan on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone: Fair youth Beneath the trees be bare; Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal-yet, do not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair! III Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu; And, happy melodist, unwearied, Forever piping songs forever new; More happy love! more happy, happy love! Forever warm and still to be enjoy'd, Forever panting, and forever young; All breathing human passion far above, that leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd, A burning fore head, and a parching tongue. IV Who these coming to the sacrifice? To what green altar, O mysterious priest, Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies, And al 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. V O Attic shape! Fair attitude with brede Of marble men and maidens overwrought, With forest branches and the trodden weed; Thou, silent form, does 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 - John Keats

Poems I like - #2

[deathpowerphantomjester5110]

Happy World Poetry Day, guys!

For today, I’m gonna post my favorite excerpts from my alltime favorite poems. (More under the cut)

“And these words shall then become

Like Oppression’s thundered doom

Ringing through each heart and brain,

Heard again — again — again —

Rise like lions after slumber

In unvanquishable number —

Shake your chains to earth like dew

Which in sleep had fallen on you —

Ye are many — they are few.”

- Percy Shelley, “The Mask of Anarchy” (1819)

"Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt, [...]

What is it then between us?

What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us? [...]

Closer yet I approach you,

What thought you have of me now, I had as much of you—I laid in my stores in advance,

I consider’d long and seriously of you before you were born.

Who was to know what should come home to me?

Who knows but I am enjoying this?

Who knows, for all the distance, but I am as good as looking at you now, for all you cannot see me?"

-Walt Whitman, "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry" (1856)

"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!"

-John Keats, "Ode on a Grecian Urn" (1819)

"Enough of Science and of Art;

Close up those barren leaves;

Come forth, and bring with you a heart

That watches and receives."

-William Wordsworth, "The Tables Turned" (1798)

[dutzervonmezzenbrau]

Ode to a Grecian Urn

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."

By  John Keats  (may 1819)

[winterchild-bh]

Eu ainda gosto de Star Wars? A primeira trilogia é tão boa assim? Porque a segunda não foi, e a terceira.... 

Então tecnicamente a primeira trilogia deveria sustentar todo meu amor pelas outras duas?

Não sei se eu sou um homem tão amoroso assim. Até porque, assisti a primeira trilogia quando tinha 8 anos. Ou seja, já tinha muita coisa melhor no mercado. Achei cringe.

Por outro lado, tenho um afeto muito especial por A Vingança dos Sith. Talvez seja porque esse foi meu primeiro contato com Star Wars? Talvez seja.

Meus pais nunca foram muito ligados em cultura pop. Nunca tive qualquer influência disso, só aquilo que eu via na Globo. Tínhamos TV a cabo, mas só assistíamos Globo. Nunca ligávamos. Então não posso linkar qualquer apego à Star Wars a isso. 

Meus amigos também não tinham tanto interesse. Eu não chegava a ser aquele jock, mas não era um nerd também. Não era recluso nem popular. Eu era aquela linha do meio, de crianças que estava vivendo a infância da forma mais pacata possível. Amigos, dedicação aos estudos, esforço. Um garoto bonzinho. 

A Vingança dos Sith surgiu só como mais um interesse, naqueles enormes que eu tinha. Não vi no cinema. Lembro de ver o poster, quando saia com meus pais de uma sessão de The Adventures of Sharkboy and Lavagirl in 3-D. (risos) 

Não lembrava desses detalhes. 

Bem, o pôster com Darth Vader estendendo a mão era tentação demais para um menino de 8 anos. Ele imediatamente pensaria que aquilo era uma coisa de adulto e, portanto, algo proibido. Ou seja, eu estava imediatamente interessado.

Só consegui ver o filme quando saiu o DVD. Compramos na Saraiva, em um dia de compras de material escolar. Odiava esse dias, eu não me importava com qual caderno eu queria ir para a escola, ou a cor das canetas. O importante é que fossem cadernos e canetas (coisas que meus pais sempre se certificavam de que era). Star Wars foi entusiasmo em um dia chato. 

Assistimos de noite. Eram tantas cores, explosões e espadas mágicas brilhantes. Tinha lutas, amor proibido e traição. Era demais para mim. Aluguei todo o resto na locadora. Quando ganhei o computador, fóruns no Jovem Nerd eram minha vida depois do horário da escola. 

Enfim, assisti a primeira trilogia em seguida, odiei. Efeitos ultrapassados, atuações duvidosas. Um filme de baixo orçamento para uma criança exigente. Não tenho boas lembranças. 

Mas gosto de The Mandalorian. 

Esse foi um texto que começou muito interessante para mim e terminou extremamente chato. 

Quero sair lá fora, preciso me arrumar. 

Preciso lembrar de trazer janta. 

Isso me faz pensar que sempre fui um homem que se contentou muito em ser mediano. Mediano não é algo ruim. Sou muito bom no que eu faço, quando tento fazer. Fui muito bom no violino, até perder o interesse. Sempre tirei notas maravilhosas, mas quando isso era a minha prioridade. Mediano. Contente com fazer o suficiente para crescer, mas não ir além. 

Tenho um leque de planejamentos que estou fazendo nessa manhã e que são totalmente factíveis. Mas só isso, factíveis. Não tenho paixão nos meus critérios. Manu e Leon tem. Eu não. 

Não deveria me concentrar nos outros. 

Não quero filhos, quero viver muito. Quero ter 50 e manter uma vida ativa, em todos os meios. Quero buscar amigos, viajar e viver meus tempos de solidão como devem ser vividos - em solidão. Eu gosto. Tá tudo bem. 

Meus pais esperam que eu seja o Gabriel. Mas eu não consigo. E não é sobre carreira, sucesso profissional, resultados metrificáveis. Eles esperam que eu leve a mesma vida. O típico dilema da classe média dos subúrbios. Onde a especulação imobiliária ainda não queimou a terra e as pessoas ainda tem a ideia ingênua de que a vida pode ser simples. Não pode, não mais. 

Eu quero a instabilidade, o ”não tradicional”. Eu quero o individualismo que ao mesmo tempo me permite me importar com os outros. Eu quero o complicado do poliamor, eu quero gostar de alguém não porque essa pessoa é minha, mas por aquilo que ela me proporciona.

Quero ser menos seletivo, mais organizado. Quero ser saudável e desejável. Eu quero entender a minha masculinidade não como algo que me define. Eu quero um remake de “Uma Nova Esperança” e eu quero um Bill Murray de 110 anos como Hutt. Talvez eu volte a gostar de Star Wars. 

Eu quero uma vida sem holofotes e completamente mediana. Eu não quero ter um impacto no mundo, só quero sair dele com a ideia de que eu dei meu melhor, mas ao mesmo tempo consegui descansar. Isso é importante. Acho que todos os velhos são cansados. 

Eu lembrei o nome do poema de John Keats. È Ode on a Grecian Urn

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."

[artdaily7]

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."

Talos Painter 400-390 BC The Death of Talos

[starry-skiesabove]

Ode on a Grecian Urn

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."

[homeyra]

may 4, 2020// thinking about john keats today- Ode on a Grecian Urn is an absolute masterpiece.

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,

Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

[kittenstern]

“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”

— John Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn

[carbondated]

❝ —— Oh come on, you've got admit, it's like fate, River Song .... ❞  She gestured to herself and then to Autumn. ❝ meet Autumn Brooke ... now, we can hardly call it unintentional kidnapping if if we've been introduced. ❞  She'd only meant to take the TARDIS for a quick trip, shopping spree, biggest mall this side of the Andromeda Galaxy, hadn't thought anyone else would be here.

@tardisghosted 🩷´d // accepting.

[livmoose]

Ode on a Grecian Urn

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-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,  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.'

[poetry-found]

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."

[valerieshmalerie]

A Brief Discussion of Eternal Significance

In college we studied a poem by the 17th century British poet John Keats entitled "Ode on a Grecian Urn." The poem is largely centered on the proposition that visual art, being static, is superior maybe even to reality because it is impervious to the potential of change and therefore decay -- the medium itself may be denigrated, but the image represented cannot be. An image of youths cannot be devalued because the youths cannot grow old; a tree blossoming in spring can never lose its leaves; a young man's paramour has no risk of her beauty fading or of a broken heart:

"Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare; Bould 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!"

The poet's comfort is found in the fact that though the world around him crumbles and fades, the images and scenes on the Grecian urn cannot:

"When old age shall this generation waste, Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe Than ours, a friend to man..."

Throughout the poem there is a search for transcendence, for something that will "remain, in midst of other woe," and the poem concludes with the determination that art is that eternal entity:

"'Beauty is truth, truth beauty -- that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.'"

This search for transcendence is universal, and often concludes, as Keats does, with the intangible: artistic beauty, romantic or familial love, etc. Humans have an innate knowledge that their time on Earth is fleeting -- that, as David wrote in Psalm 39:5, "every man at his best state is but vapor" -- and this knowledge is deeply unsatisfying. So we long for something that will outlast us, something that can be passed down though generations long after we're gone.

Unfortunately for Keats, his beloved Grecian urn and even his ode to it will not last forever. There is only one thing that has this everlasting quality we so desperately seek: the Word of God (Matthew 24:35). When all time has passed, God and His Word will remain, because they never had a beginning in the first place. The eternality of God's Word is one reason why it can be trusted. We may all forget our words and the promises we make, but God will not. In fact, He cannot. His Word is forever.

If we want some part of our lives to outlast us, to continue on after we're long gone and forgotten, there is no better way than to live for the eternal. Love for Jesus Christ, the eternal Son of God and Word made flesh, is the only way for us to have eternal significance (1 Corinthians 13:8, 13). As another poet, Charles Studd, astutely wrote,

"Only one life 'twill soon be past. Only what's done for Christ will last."

[tadghpairceir]

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."

[dutzervonmezzenbrau]

Ode on a Grecian Urn

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."

by    John Keats    (1819)