In the event that the “Ode to a Nightingale” depicts Keats’ speaker’s commitment with the liquid expressiveness of music, the “Ode on a Grecian Urn” depicts his endeavor to draw in with the static fixed status of figure. The Grecian urn, went down through incalculable hundreds of years to the season of the speaker’s review, exists outside of time in the human sense—it doesn’t age, it doesn’t bite the dust, and in reality, it is outsider to every such idea. In the speaker’s contemplation, this makes a fascinating Catch 22 for the human considers cut along with the side of the urn: They are free from time; however, they are at the same time solidified in time. They don’t need to stand up to maturing and passing (their affection is “forever youthful”), yet neither would they be able to have involvement (the young can never kiss the lady; the figures in the parade can stay away for the indefinite future to their homes).
The speaker endeavors three times to draw in with scenes cut into the urn; each time he makes diverse inquiries of it. In the main stanza, he analyzes the photo of the “distraught interest” and ponders what genuine story lies behind the photo: “What men or divine beings are these? What ladies loth?” obviously, the urn can never disclose to him the whos, whats, whens, and wheres of the stories it portrays, and the speaker is compelled to desert this line of addressing.
In the second and third stanzas, he inspects the photo of the flautist playing to his darling underneath the trees. Here, the speaker endeavors to envision what the experience of the figures on the urn must resemble; he attempts to relate to them. He is enticed by their escape from transience and pulled in to the unceasing novelty of the flute player’s unheard tune and the forever perpetual magnificence of his sweetheart. He believes that their adoration is “far over” all transient human enthusiasm, which, in its sexual articulation, definitely prompts a reduction of power—when energy is fulfilled, all that remaining parts is a wearied physicality: a dismal heart, a “consuming brow,” and a “drying tongue.” His memory of these conditions appears remind the speaker that he is inevitably subject to them, and he forsakes his endeavor to relate to the figures on the urn.
In the fourth stanza, the speaker endeavors to consider the figures on the urn just as they were experiencing human time, envisioning that their parade has a source (the “little town”) and a goal (the “green holy place”). In any case, everything he can believe is that the town will everlastingly be abandoned: If these individuals have left their birthplace, they will stay away for the indefinite future to it. In this sense he defies head-on the points of confinement of static workmanship; on the off chance that it is difficult to gain from the urn the whos and where’s of the “genuine story” in the principal stanza, it is unimaginable ever to know the inception and the goal of the figures on the urn in the fourth.
Beyond any doubt the speaker demonstrates a specific sort of advance in his progressive endeavors to draw in with the urn. His sit out of gear interest in the primary endeavor offers route to an all the more profoundly felt distinguishing proof in the second, and in the third, the speaker abandons his own worries and thinks about the processional absolutely all alone terms, thinking about the “little town” with a genuine and liberal inclination. Be that as it may, each endeavor at last finishes in disappointment. The third endeavor flops just in light of the fact that there is nothing more to state—once the speaker stands up to the quiet and unceasing void of the little town, he has achieved the point of confinement of static craftsmanship; regarding this matter, in any event, there is nothing more the urn can let him know.
In the last stanza, the speaker exhibits the conclusions drawn from his three endeavors to connect with the urn. He is overpowered by its reality outside of transient change, with its capacity to “bother” him “out of thought/As doth forever.” If human life is a progression of “hungry ages,” as the speaker recommends in “Songbird,” the urn is a different and independent world. It can be a “companion to man,” as the speaker says, yet it can’t be mortal; the sort of tasteful association the speaker encounters with the urn is at last lacking to human life.
The last two lines, in which the speaker envisions the urn talking its message to humankind—”Excellence is truth, truth magnificence,” have demonstrated among the hardest to decipher in the Keats standard. After the urn expresses the confounding expression “Excellence is truth, truth magnificence,” nobody can state for beyond any doubt who “talks” the conclusion, “that is all/Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.” It could be the speaker tending to the urn, and it could be the urn tending to humanity. On the off chance that it is the speaker tending to the urn, at that point it would appear to demonstrate his familiarity with its confinements: The urn should not have to know anything past the condition of magnificence and truth, yet the inconveniences of human life make it unimaginable for such a straightforward and independent expression to express adequately anything about important human information. In the event that it is the urn tending to humankind, at that point the expression has rather the heaviness of an essential exercise, just as past every one of the difficulties of human life, every single individual need to know on earth is that magnificence and truth are one and the same. It is to a great extent a matter of individual understanding which perusing to acknowledge.