Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892)

Mariana  (1830)
With blackest moss the flower-plots
Were thickly crusted, one and all:
The rusted nails fell from the knots
That held the peach to the garden-wall. 
The broken sheds look'd sad and strange:
Unlifted was the clinking latch;
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch
Upon the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Her tears fell with the dews at even;
Her tears fell ere the dews were dried;
She could not look on the sweet heaven,
Either at morn or eventide.
After the flitting of the bats,
When thickest dark did trance the sky,
She drew her casement-curtain by,
And glanced athwart the glooming flats.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
Upon the middle of the night,
Waking she heard the night-fowl crow:
The cock sung out an hour ere light:
From the dark fen the oxen's low
Came to her: without hope of change,
In sleep she seem'd to walk forlorn,
Till cold winds woke the gray-eyed morn
About the lonely moated grange.
She only said, "The day is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
About a stone-cast from the wall
A sluice with blacken'd waters slept,
And o'er it many, round and small,
The cluster'd marish-mosses crept.
Hard by a poplar shook alway,
All silver-green with gnarled bark:
For leagues no other tree did mark 
The level waste, the rounding gray.
She only said, "My life is dreary	

	
And ever when the moon was low,
And the shrill winds were up and away,
In the white curtain, to and fro,
She saw the gusty shadow sway.
But when the moon was very low,
And wild winds bound within their cell,
The shadow of the poplar fell
Upon her bed, across her brow.
She only said, "The night is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
All day within the dreamy house,
The doors upon their hinges creak'd;
The blue fly sung in the pane; the mouse
Behind the mouldering wainscot shriek'd,
Or from the crevice peer'd about.
Old faces glimmer'd thro' the doors,
Old footsteps trod the upper floors,
Old voices called her from without.
She only said, "My life is dreary,
He cometh not," she said;
She said, "I am aweary, aweary,
I would that I were dead!"
The sparrow's chirrup on the roof,
The slow clock ticking, and the sound,
Which to the wooing wind aloof
The poplar made, did all confound
Her sense; but most she loathed the hour
When the thick-moted sunbeam lay
Athwart the chambers, and the day
Was sloping toward his western bower.
Then, said she, "I am very dreary,
He will not come," she said;
She wept, "I am aweary, aweary,
O God, that I were dead!"	

	

The Lady of Shalott  (1832)
Part I
On either side of the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road runs by
            To many-towered Camelot; 
And up and down the people go, 
Gazing where the lilies blow 
Round an island there below,
            The island of Shalott.1
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
            Flowing down to Camelot. 
Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 
Overlook a space of flowers, 
And the silent isle imbowers
            The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow veiled
Slide the heavy barges trailed
By slow horses; and unhailed
The shallop flitteth silken-sailed
Skimming down to Camelot: 
            But who hath seen her wave her hand? 
Or at the casement seen her stand?              
Or is she known in all the land,
            The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
            Down to towered Camelot: 
And by the moon the reaper weary, 
Piling sheaves in uplands airy, 
Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy
            Lady of Shalott."

Part II
There she weaves by night and day 
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
            To look down to Camelot. 
She knows not what the curse may be, 
And so she weaveth steadily, 
And little other care hath she,
            The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear
That hands before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
            Winding down to Camelot:  
There the river eddy whirls, 
And there the curly village-churls, 
And the red cloaks of market girls,
            Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-haired page in crimson clad,
            Goes by to towered Camelot; 
And sometimes through the mirror blue 
The knights come riding two and two: 
She hath no loyal knight and true,
            The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
            And music, went to Camelot: 
Or when the moon was overhead, 
Came two young lovers lately wed; 
"I am half sick of shadows," said
            The Lady of Shalott.

Part III
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling through the leaves,  
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
            Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneeled 
To a lady in his shield, 
That sparkled on the yellow field,
            Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glittered free, 
Like to some branch of stars we see 
Hung in the golden Galaxy. 
The bridle bells rang merrily
            As he rode down to Camelot: 
And from his blazoned baldric slung 
A mighty silver bugle hung, 
And as he rode his armour rung,
            Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather 
Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather, 
The helmet and the helmet-feather 
Burned like one burning flame together,
            As he rode down to Camelot. 
As often through the purple night, 
Below the starry clusters bright, 
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
            Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;   
On burnished hooves his war-horse trode; 
From underneath his helmet flowed 
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
            As he rode down to Camelot. 
From the bank and from the river 
He flashed into the crystal mirror, 
"Tirra lira," by the river
            Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom, 
She made three paces through the room, 
She saw the water-lily bloom, 
She saw the helmet and the plume,
            She looked down to Camelot. 
Out flew the web and floated wide; 
The mirror cracked from side to side; 
"The curse is come upon me," cried
            The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV
In the stormy east-wind straining, 
The pale yellow woods were waning, 
The broad stream in his banks complaining, 
Heavily the low sky raining
            Over towered Camelot; 
Down she came and found a boat 
Beneath a willow left afloat, 
And round about the prow she wrote 
            The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance — 
With a glassy countenance
            Did she look to Camelot. 
And at the closing of the day 
She loosed the chain, and down she lay; 
The broad stream bore her far away,
            The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Through the noises of the night
            She floated down to Camelot: 
And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among, 
They heard her singing her last song,
            The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
            Turned to towered Camelot. 
For ere she reached upon the tide 
The first house by the water-side, 
Singing in her song she died,
            The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
            Silent into Camelot. 
Out upon the wharfs they came, 
Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 
And round the prow they read her name,
            The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
            All the knights at Camelot: 
But Lancelot mused a little space; 
He said, "She has a lovely face; 
God in his mercy lend her grace,
            The Lady of Shalott."

The Palace of Art  (1832; 1842)
I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house,
      Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.
I said, "O Soul, make merry and carouse, 
      Dear soul, for all is well."
A huge crag-platform, smooth as burnish'd brass,
      I chose. The ranged ramparts bright
From level meadow-bases of deep grass 
      Suddenly scaled the light.
Thereon I built it firm. Of ledge or shelf
      The rock rose clear, or winding stair.
My soul would live alone unto herself 
      In her high palace there.
And "while the world runs round and round," I said,
      "Reign thou apart, a quiet king,
Still as, while Saturn whirls his stedfast shade
      Sleeps on his luminous ring." 
To which my soul made answer readily:
      "Trust me, in bliss I shall abide
In this great mansion, that is built for me,
      So royal-rich and wide."
Four courts I made, East, West and South and North,
      In each a squared lawn, wherefrom
The golden gorge of dragons spouted forth 
      A flood of fountain-foam. 
And round the cool green courts there ran a row
      Of cloisters, branch'd like mighty woods,
Echoing all night to that sonorous flow
       Of spouted fountain-floods. 
And round the roofs a gilded gallery
      That lent broad verge to distant lands,
Far as the wild swan wings, to where the sky
       Dipt down to sea and sands. 
From those four jets four currents in one swell
      Across the mountain stream'd below
In misty folds, that floating as they fell
      Lit up a torrent-bow. 
And high on every peak a statue seem'd
      To hang on tiptoe, tossing up
A cloud of incense of all odour steam'd
      From out a golden cup. 
So that she thought, "And who shall gaze upon
      My palace with unblinded eyes,
While this great bow will waver in the sun,
      And that sweet incense rise?" 
For that sweet incense rose and never fail'd,
      And, while day sank or mounted higher,
The light aerial gallery, golden-rail'd,
      Burnt like a fringe of fire. 
Likewise the deep-set windows, stain'd and traced,
       Would seem slow-flaming crimson fires
From shadow'd grots of arches interlaced,
      And tipt with frost-like spires. 
* * * * * * * * * * * * * 
Full of long-sounding corridors it was,
       over-vaulted grateful gloom,
Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass,
       Well-pleased, from room to room. 
Full of great rooms and small the palace stood,
      All various, each a perfect whole
From living Nature, fit for every mood
       And change of my still soul. 
For some were hung with arras green and blue,
      Showing a gaudy summer-morn,
Where with puff'd cheek the belted hunter blew
      His wreathed bugle-horn. 
One seem'd all dark and red — a tract of sand,
      And some one pacing there alone,
Who paced for ever in a glimmering land,
      Lit with a low large moon. 
One show'd an iron coast and angry waves
      You seem'd to hear them climb and fall
And roar rock-thwarted under bellowing caves,
      Beneath the windy wall.
And one, a full-fed river winding slow
      By herds upon an endless plain,
The ragged rims of thunder brooding low,
      With shadow-streaks of rain. 
And one, the reapers at their sultry toil.
      In front they bound the sheaves. Behind
Were realms of upland, prodigal in oil,
      And hoary to the wind. 
And one a foreground black with stones and slags,
      beyond, a line of heights, and higher
All barr'd with long white cloud the scornful crags,
      And highest, snow and fire.
And one, an English home — gray twilight pour'd
      On dewy pastures, dewy trees,
Softer than sleep — all things in order stored,
      A haunt of ancient Peace.
Nor these alone, but every landscape fair,
      As fit for every mood of mind,
Or gay, or grave, or sweet, or stern, was there,
      Not less than truth design'd.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Or the maid-mother by a crucifix.
      In tracts of pasture sunny-warm.
Beneath branch-work of costly sardonyx
      Sat smiling, babe in arm. 
Or in a clear-wall'd city on the sea,
      Near gilded organ-pipes, her hair
with white roses, slept Saint Cecily; 
      An angel look'd at her. 
Or thronging all one porch of Paradise
      A group of Houris bow'd to see
The dying Islamite, with hands and eyes
      That said, We wait for thee. 
Or mythic Uther's deeply-wounded son
      In some fair space of sloping greens
Lay, dozing in the vale of Avalon,
      And watch'd by weeping queens. 
Or hollowing one hand against his ear, 
      To list a foot-fall, ere he saw
The wood-nymph, stay'd the Ausonian king to hear
      Of wisdom and of law. 
Or over hills with peaky tops engrail'd,
      And many a tract of palm and rice,
The throne of Indian Cama slowly sail'd
      A summer fann'd with spice. 
Or sweet Europa's mantle blew unclasp'd,
      From off her shoulder backward borne:
From one hand droop'd a crocus: one hand grasp'd
      The mild bull's golden horn. 
Or else flush'd Ganymede, his rosy thigh
      Half-buried in the Eagle's down,
Sole as a flying star shot thro' the sky
      Above the pillar'd town. 
Nor these alone: but every legend fair
      Which the supreme Caucasian mind
Carved out of Nature for itself was there'
      Not less than life design'd.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung,
      Moved of themselves, with silver sound; 
And with choice paintings of wise men I hung
      The royal dais round. 
For there was Milton like a seraph strong,
      Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild;
And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song,
      And somewhat grimly smiled. 
And there the Ionian father of the rest;
      A million wrinkles carved his skin;
A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast,
      From cheek and throat and chin. 
Above, the fair hall-ceiling stately-set
      Many an arch high- up did lift,
And angels rising and descending met
      With interchange of gift.
Below was all mosaic choicely plann'd
      With cycles of the human tale
Of this wide world, the times of every land
      So wrought they will not fail.
The people here, a beast of burden slow,
      Toil'd onward, prick'd with goads and stings;
Here play'd, a tiger, rolling to and fro
      The heads and crowns of kings; 
Here rose, an athlete, strong to break or bind
     All force in bonds that might endure,
And here once more like some sick man declined,
      And trusted any cure.
But over these she trod: and those great bells
     Began to chime. She took her throne:
She sat betwixt the shining Oriels.
      To sing her songs alone.
And thro' the topmost Oriels, coloured flame
      Two godlike faces gazed below;
Plato the wise, and large-brow'd Verulam,
      The first of those who know.
And all those names that in their motion were
     Full-welling fountain-heads of change,
Betwixt the slender shafts were blazon'd fair
      In diverse raiment strange:
Thro' which the lights' rose, amber, emerald, blue,
      Flush'd in her temples and her eyes,
And from her lips, as morn from Memnon, drew
      Rivers of melodies.
No nightingale delighteth to prolong
      Her low preamble all alone,
More than my soul to hear her echo'd song
      Throb thro' the ribbed stone;
Singing and murmuring in her feastful mirth,
     Joying to feel herself alive,
Lord over Nature, Lord of the visible earth,
      Lord of the senses five;
Communing with herself: "All these are mine,
      And let the world have peace or wars,
'T is one to me." She — when young night divine
      Crown'd dying day with stars,
Making sweet close of his delicious toils — 
      Lit light in wreaths and anadems,
And pure quintessences of precious oils
      In hollow'd moons of gems, 
To mimic heaven; and clapt her hands and cried,
      I marvel if my still delight
In this great house so royal-rich, and wide,
      Be flatter'd to the height. 
"O all things fair to sate my various eyes!
      O shapes and hues that please me well!
O silent faces of the Great and Wise,
      My Gods, with whom I dwell!
"O God-like isolation which art mine,
      I can but count thee perfect gain,
What time I watch the darkening droves of swine
      That range on yonder plain. 
"In filthy sloughs they roll a prurient skin,
      They graze and wallow, breed and sleep;
And oft some brainless devil enters in,
      And drives them to the deep." 
Then of the moral instinct would she prate
      And of the rising from the dead,
As hers by right of full-accomplish'd Fate;
      And at the last she said: 
"I take possession of man's mind and deed.
      I care not what the sects may brawl.
I sit as God holding no form of creed,
      But contemplating all."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Full oft the riddle of the painful earth
      Flash'd thro' her as she sat alone,
Yet not the less held she her solemn mirth, 
      And intellectual throne.
And so she throve and prosper'd: so three years
      She prosper'd; on the fourth she fell,
Like Herod, when the shout was in his ears,
      Struck thro' with pangs of hell. 
Lest she should fail and perish utterly,
      God, before whom ever lie bare
The abysmal deeps of Personality,
      Plagued her with sore despair. 
When she would think, where'er she turn'd her sight
      The airy hand confusion wrought,
Wrote, "Mene, mene," and divided quite
      The kingdom of her thought. 
Deep dread and loathing of her solitude
      Fell on her, from which mood was born
Scorn of herself; again, from out that mood
      Laughter at her self-scorn. 
"What! is not this my place of strength," she said,
      "My spacious mansion built for me,
Whereof the strong foundation-stones were laid
      Since my first memory."
But in dark corners of her palace stood
      uncertain shapes; and unawares
On white-eyed phantasms weeping tears of blood,
      And horrible nightmares,
And hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame,
      And, with dim fretted foreheads all,
On corpses three-months-old at noon she came,
      That stood against the wall.
A spot of dull stagnation, without light
      Or power of movement, seem'd my soul,
'Mid onward-sloping motions infinite
      Making for one sure goal.
A still salt pool, lock'd in with bars of sand,
      Left on the shore; that hears all night
The plunging seas draw backward from the land
      Their moon-led waters white.
A star that with the choral starry dance
      Join'd not, but stood, and standing saw
The hollow orb of moving Circumstance 
      Roll'd round by one fix'd law. 
Back on herself her serpent pride had curl'd
      "No voice," she shriek'd in that lone hall,
"No voice breaks thro' the stillness of this world:
      One deep, deep silence all!"
She, mouldering with the dull earth's mouldering sod,
      Inwrapt tenfold in slothful shame,
Lay there exiled from eternal God,
      Lost to her place and name; 
And death and life she hated equally,
      And nothing saw, for her despair,
But dreadful time, dreadful eternity,
      No comfort anywhere; 
Remaining utterly confused with fears,
      And ever worse with growing time,
And ever unrelieved by dismal tears,
      And all alone in crime: 
Shut up as in a crumbling tomb, girt round
      With blackness as a solid wall,
Far off she seem'd to hear the dully sound
      Of human footsteps fall. 
As in strange lands a traveller walking slow,
      In doubt and great perplexity,
A little before moon-rise hears the low
      Moan of an unknown sea; 
And knows not if it be thunder, or a sound
      Of rocks thrown down, or one deep cry
Of great wild beasts; then thinketh, "I have found
      A new land, but I die." 
She howl'd aloud, "I am on fire within.
      There comes no murmur of reply.
What is it that will take away my sin,
      And save me lest I die?"
So when four years were wholly finished, 
      She threw her royal robes away.
"Make me a cottage in the vale," she said,
      "Where I may mourn and pray. 
"Yet pull not down my palace towers, that are 
     So lightly, beautifully built.
Perchance I may return with others there
      When I have purged my guilt."
                   *******

Ulysses  (1842)
It little profits that an idle king, 
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers;
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle — 
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me — 
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
*****

The Lotos-Eaters (1832)
“Courage!” he said, and pointed toward the land, 
“This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.” 
In the afternoon they came unto a land 
In which it seemed always afternoon. 
All round the coast the languid air did swoon, 
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream. 
Full-faced above the valley stood the moon; 
And like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. 

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, 
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; 
And some thro’ wavering lights and shadows broke, 
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. 
They saw the gleaming river seaward flow 
From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, 
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, 
Stood sunset-flush’d: and, dew’d with showery drops, 
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. 

The charmed sunset linger’d low adown 
In the red West: thro’ mountain clefts the dale 
Was seen far inland, and the yellow down 
Border’d with palm, and many a winding vale 
And meadow, set with slender galingale; 
A land where all things always seem’d the same! 
And round about the keel with faces pale, 
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, 
The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. 

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, 
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave 
To each, but whoso did receive of them, 
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave 
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave 
On alien shores; and if his fellow spake, 
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave; 
And deep-asleep he seem’d, yet all awake, 
And music in his ears his beating heart did make. 

They sat them down upon the yellow sand, 
Between the sun and moon upon the shore; 
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, 
Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore 
Most weary seem’d the sea, weary the oar, 
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam. 
Then some one said, “We will return no more”; 
And all at once they sang, “Our island home 
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.”
Choric Song
THERE is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
Here are cool mosses deep,
And thro' the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness,
And utterly consumed with sharp distress,
While all things else have rest from weariness?
All things have rest: why should we toil alone,
We only toil, who are the first of things,
And make perpetual moan,
Still from one sorrow to another thrown:
Nor ever fold our wings,
And cease from wanderings,
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm;
Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,
'There is no joy but calm!'—
Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?
Lo! in the middle of the wood,
The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud
With winds upon the branch, and there
Grows green and broad, and takes no care,
Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon
Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow
Falls, and floats adown the air.
Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light,
The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,
Drops in a silent autumn night.
All its allotted length of days,
The flower ripens in its place,
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.
Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea.
Death is the end of life; ah, why
Should life all labour be?
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
And in a little while our lips are dumb.
Let us alone. What is it that will last?
All things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
To war with evil? Is there any peace
In ever climbing up the climbing wave?
All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave
In silence; ripen, fall and cease:
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,
With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half-dream!
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;
To hear each other's whisper'd speech;
Eating the Lotos day by day,
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
And tender curving lines of creamy spray;
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;
To muse and brood and live again in memory,
With those old faces of our infancy
Heap'd over with a mound of grass,
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!
Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,
And dear the last embraces of our wives
And their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd change;
For surely now our household hearts are cold:
Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange:
And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.
Or else the island princes over-bold
Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings
Before them of the ten years' war in Troy,
And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things.
Is there confusion in the little isle?
Let what is broken so remain.
The Gods are hard to reconcile:
'Tis hard to settle order once again.
There is confusion worse than death,
Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,
Long labour unto aged breath,
Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.
But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly,
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly)
With half-dropt eyelids still,
Beneath a heaven dark and holy,
To watch the long bright river drawing slowly
His waters from the purple hill—
To hear the dewy echoes calling
From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine—
To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling
Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine!
Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,
Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine.
The Lotos blooms below the barren peak:
The Lotos blows by every winding creek:
All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone:
Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone
Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown.
We have had enough of action, and of motion we,
Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free,
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea.
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie relined
On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd
Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd
Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world:
Where the smile in secret, looking over wasted lands,
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands,
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands.
But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong;
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil;
Till they perish and they suffer—some, 'tis whisper'd—down in hell
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore
Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;
O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.