Extract

Beauty is truth, truth beauty, that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Figures frozen on a marble vase pursue and flee for eternity, their lips almost touching, their songs forever unheard, and in their stillness a young poet found a paradox that neither philosophy nor theology could quite resolve. Composed in the spring of 1819, the poem circles the urn like a visitor in a museum, interrogating each painted scene. The lovers will never kiss, but neither will their beauty fade. The town is forever emptied of its people, its streets silent for all time. The closing declaration that beauty is truth and truth beauty has been debated for two centuries, but the urn keeps its cold pastoral counsel, answering every question with form alone.