Poets' Corner - Alfred, Lord Tennyson

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Crossing the Bar

SUNSET and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound or foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell;
When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar.: Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Ulysses

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 enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext 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 honour'd 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 wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' 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 gray 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 thro' 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,
'T is 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 tho'
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.: Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The Eagle

HE CLASPS the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.: Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Break, Break, Break

BREAK, break, break,: On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter: The thoughts that arise in me.
O, well for the fisherman's boy,: That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,: That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on: To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,: And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break: At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead: Will never come back to me.; Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The Kraken

BELOW the thunders of the upper deep,
Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,
His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep
The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee
About his shadowy sides; above him swell
Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;
And far away into the sickly light,
From many a wondrous and secret cell
Unnumber'd and enormous polypi
Winnow with giant arms the lumbering green.
There hath he lain for ages, and will lie
Battening upon huge sea-worms in his sleep,
Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;
Then once by man and angels to be seen,
In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.: Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Charge of the Light Brigade

HALF a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death: Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said:
Into the valley of Death: Rode the six hundred.
"Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismayed?
Not tho' the soldiers knew: Someone had blundered:
Theirs was not to make reply,
Theirs was not to reason why,
Theirs was but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death: Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon in front of them: Volleyed and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell,: Rode the six hundred.
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air,
Sab'ring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while: All the world wondered:
Plunging in the battery smoke,
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre-stroke: Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not--: Not the six hundred.
Cannon to the right of them,
Cannon to the left of them,
Cannon in front of them: Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that fought so well,
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,: Left of the six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
Oh, the wild charge they made!: All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,: Noble Six Hundred!; Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The Oak

YOUNG and old,
Like yon oak,
Bright in spring,
Living gold;
Summer-rich
Then; and then
Autumn-changed,
Soberer hued
Gold again.
All his leaves
Fall'n at length,
Look, he stands,
Trunk and bough,
Naked strength.: Alfred, Lord Tennyson

In Memoriam: VII

DARK house, by which once more I stand: Here in the long unlovely street,; Doors, where my heart was used to beat
So quickly, waiting for a hand,
A hand that can be clasped no more--: Behold me, for I cannot sleep,; And like a guilty thing I creep
At earliest morning to the door.
He is not here; but far away: The noise of life begins again; And ghastly through the drizzling rain
On the bald street breaks the blank day.: Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The Splendor Falls

THE splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story:
The long light shakes across the lakes
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes dying, dying, dying.
O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes dying, dying, dying.
O love they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field, or river:
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.: Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Tears, Idle Tears

TEARS, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!: Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The Palace of Art

ONE seemed 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 showed an iron coast and angry waves.: You seemed 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 dewey pastures, dewey trees,
Softer than sleep-all things in order stored,: A haunt of ancient Peace.; Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Sweet and Low

SWEET and low, sweet and low,: Wind of the western sea,
Low, low, breathe and blow,: Wind of the western sea!
Over the rolling waters go,: Come from the dying moon, and blow,
Blow him again to me;: While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.
Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,: Father will come to thee soon;
Rest, rest, on mother's breast,: Father will come to thee soon;
Father will come to his babe in the nest,: Silver sails all out of the west
Under the silver moon:: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.; Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Ask No More

ASK me no more: the moon may draw the sea;
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee?: Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye:
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;: Ask me no more.
Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd:
I strove against the stream and all in vain:
Let the great river take me to the main:
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;: Ask me no more.; Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Mariana in the South

WITH one black shadow at its feet,: The house thro' all the level shines,
Close-latticed to the brooding heat,: And silent in its dusty vines:
A faint-blue ridge upon the right,: An empty river-bed before,
And shallows on a distant shore,: In glaring sand and inlets bright.
But "Aye Mary," made she moan,: And "Aye Mary," night and morn,
And "Ah," she sang, "to be all alone,: To live forgotten, and love forlorn."
She, as her carol sadder grew,: From brow and bosom slowly down
Thro' rosy taper fingers drew: Her streaming curls of deepest brown
To left and right, and made appear,: Still-lighted in a secret shrine,
Her melancholy eyes divine,: The home of woe without a tear.
And "Aye Mary," was her moan,: "Madonna, sad is night and morn;"
And "Ah," she sang, "to be all alone,: To live forgotten, and love forlorn."
Till all the crimson changed, and past: Into deep orange o'er the sea,
Low on her knees herself she cast,: Before Our Lady murmur'd she:
Complaining, "Mother, give me grace: To help me of my weary load."
And on the liquid mirror glow'd: The clear perfection of her face.
"Is this the form," she made her moan,: "That won his praises night and morn?"
And "Ah," she said, "but I wake alone,: I sleep forgotten, I wake forlorn."
Nor bird would sing, nor lamb would bleat,: Nor any cloud would cross the vault,
But day increased from heat to heat,: On stony drought and steaming salt;
Till now at noon she slept again,: And seem'd knee-deep in mountain grass,
And heard her native breezes pass,: And runlets babbling down the glen.
She breathed in sleep a lower moan,: And murmuring, as at night and morn
She thought, "My spirit is here alone,: Walks forgotten, and is forlorn."
Dreaming, she knew it was a dream:: She felt he was and was not there.
She woke: the babble of the stream: Fell, and, without, the steady glare
Shrank one sick willow sere and small.: The river-bed was dusty-white;
And all the furnace of the light: Struck up against the blinding wall.
She whisper'd, with a stifled moan: More inward than at night or morn,
"Sweet Mother, let me not here alone: Live forgotten and die forlorn."
And, rising, from her bosom drew: Old letters, breathing of her worth,
For "Love", they said, "must needs be true,: To what is loveliest upon earth."
An image seem'd to pass the door,: To look at her with slight, and say,
"But now thy beauty flows away,: So be alone for evermore."
"O cruel heart," she changed her tone,: "And cruel love, whose end is scorn,
Is this the end to be left alone,: To live forgotten, and die forlorn?"
But sometimes in the falling day: An image seem'd to pass the door,
To look into her eyes and say,: "But thou shalt be alone no more."
And flaming downward over all: From heat to heat the day decreased,
And slowly rounded to the east: The one black shadow from the wall.
"The day to night," she made her moan,: "The day to night, the night to morn,
And day and night I am left alone: To live forgotten, and love forlorn."
At eve a dry cicada sung,: There came a sound as of the sea;
Backward the lattice-blind she flung,: And lean'd upon the balcony.
There all in spaces rosy-bright: Large Hesper glitter'd on her tears,
And deepening thro' the silent spheres: Heaven over Heaven rose the night.
And weeping then she made her moan,: "The night comes on that knows not morn,
When I shall cease to be all alone,: To live forgotten, and love forlorn."; Alfred, Lord Tennyson

The Flower

ONCE in a golden hour: I cast to earth a seed.
Up there came a flower,: The people said, a weed.
To and fro they went: Thro' my garden bower,
And muttering discontent: Cursed me and my flower.
Then it grew so tall: It wore a crown of light,
But thieves from o'er the wall: Stole the seed by night.
Sow'd it far and wide: By every town and tower,
Till all the people cried,: "Splendid is the flower!"
Read my little fable:: He that runs may read.
Most can raise the flowers now,: For all have got the seed.
And some are pretty enough,: And some are poor indeed;
And now again the people: Call it but a weed.; Alfred, Lord Tennyson

A Farewell

FLOW down, cold rivulet, to the sea,: Thy tribute wave deliver:
No more by thee my steps shall be,: For ever and for ever.
Flow, softly flow, by lawn and lea,: A rivulet then a river:
Nowhere by thee my steps shall be: For ever and for ever.
But here will sigh thine alder tree: And here thine aspen shiver;
And here by thee will hum the bee,: For ever and for ever.
A thousand suns will stream on thee,: A thousand moons will quiver;
But not by thee my steps shall be,: For ever and for ever.; Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Of Old Sat Freedom

OF OLD sat Freedom on the heights,: The thunders breaking at her feet:
Above her shook the starry lights:: She heard the torrents meet.
There in her place she did rejoice,: Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind,
But fragments of her mighty voice: Came rolling on the wind.
Then stept she down thro' town and field: To mingle with the human race,
And part by part to men reveal'd: The fullness of her face --
Grave mother of majestic works,: From her isle-alter gazing down,
Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks,: And, King-like, wears the crown:
Her open eyes desire the truth.: The wisdom of a thousand years
Is in them. May perpetual youth: Keep dry their light from tears;
That her fair form may stand and shine: Make bright our days and light our dreams,
Turning to scorn with lips divine: The falsehood of extremes!; Alfred, Lord Tennyson

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