A text is like a body, a country, a language. You can know
it on the surface, what you see at first, how it is first read. There is the literal text/body that you see - yet, to see the literal is not to know the text/body. It must be explored and
journeyed over and your heart must fall in love with it to know it fully. And
still there is the punctuation of life that gives form to our stories, defining the
parameters of our souls and existence.
The scent of a beautiful woman is sublime.
"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?"
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?"
~ Keats, Ode To A Grecian Urn
"'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,' - that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."
~ Keats, Ode To A Grecian Urn
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