詩人對著古希臘式的甕展開一場獨白及發問，望著圍繞甕上雕刻的有關神或人，男或女，追逐或逃避的古老故事沉思。這個甕好像一位歷史學家，在寧靜和慢慢流逝的時間當中訴說著一個比詩歌更甜美華麗的故事。
詩人首先在甕上看見一位純潔完美的新娘靜候出嫁，笛聲悠揚，樹葉正茂，甕上的雕刻給此時此刻定格了，令詩人歌頌這對新人的青春永遠存在，笛聲還有未奏完的樂曲，樹木永遠茂盛，可是這對戀人永遠無法接吻，不過，新娘的純潔完美永遠存在，而新郎的愛情永恆不朽，這個不會逝去的春天、不休止的奏樂，快樂的愛情，令人享受著永遠年輕和溫暖的時光，超越世間容易令人過熱和失落的愛慾。
接著發生的是一位牧師領著一隻小母牛到祭壇上準備獻牲，城内及街上的人全部跟著走到城外，城裏突然變為寂靜凋零，這畫面令詩人感觸一代又一代的凡人過去，再沒有人去講和聽這個故事，唯有這個甕永遠長存，向人類述說著不老的故事。
甕代表著藝術品，它記錄了/固定了當下的時刻，即是永恆的真理，而美就是這真理。雖然藝術品的確不像凡人或時間那樣流動，就好像那個永遠沒有接上的吻，但是藝術品的可貴之處就是它有別於凡夫俗子，它本身就是永恆不變的體現，而美就在此。如甕一樣，這首詩歌也是藝術品，其美永垂不朽。
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.”
English language & literature 