| 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 through 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 weighed 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 wooed from out the bud |
| With winds upon the branch, and there |
| Grows green and broad, and takes no care, |
| Sun-steeped at noon, and in the moon |
| Nightly dew-fed ; and turning yellow |
| Falls, and floats adown the air. |
| Lo ! sweetened 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 whispered 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 |
| Heaped 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
suffered change : |
| For surely now our household hearths 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 then death, |
| Trouble on trouble, pain on pain, |
| Long labour unto agèd breath, |
| Sore task to hearts worn out by 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 eyelid 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 through the thick-twinèd
vine— |
| To watch the emerald-coloured water falling |
| Through many a woven acanthus-wreath divine
! |
| Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling
brine, |
Only to hear were sweet, stretched 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 : |
| Through every hollow cave and alley lone |
| Round and round the spicy downs the yellow
Lotos-dust blown. |
| We have had enough of action, and of motion
we, |
| Rolled to starboard, rolled 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
reclined |
| On the hills like Gods together, careless
of mankind. |
| For they lie beside their nectar, and the
bolts are hurled |
| Far below them in the valleys, and the
clouds are lightly curled |
| Round their golden houses, girdled with the
gleaming world : |
| Where they 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 though 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
whispered—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 ; |
Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not
wander more.
|
| Alfred, Lord
Tennyson | Classic
Poems |
| |
|
[ The Brook ] [ Blow, Bugle, Blow ] [ Come into the garden Maud ] [ Tithonus ] [ Ulysses ] [ Tears, Idle Tears ] [ The Lady of Shalott ] [ Song of the Lotus-Eaters ] [ The Charge of the Light Brigade ] [ In the Valley of Cauteretz ] [ In Memoriam ] [ The Eagle ] |
