Read Ebook: The Suppressed Poems of Alfred Lord Tennyson by Tennyson Alfred Tennyson Baron

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 196 lines and 30627 words, and 4 pages

Could I outwear my present state of woe With one brief winter, and indue i' the spring Hues of fresh youth, and mightily outgrow The wan dark coil of faded suffering-- Forth in the pride of beauty issuing A sheeny snake, the light of vernal bowers, Moving his crest to all sweet plots of flowers And watered vallies where the young birds sing; Could I thus hope my lost delights renewing, I straightly would commend the tears to creep From my charged lids; but inwardly I weep: Some vital heat as yet my heart is wooing: This to itself hath drawn the frozen rain From my cold eyes and melted it again.

Though Night hath climbed her peak of highest noon, And bitter blasts the screaming autumn whirl, All night through archways of the bridg?d pearl And portals of pure silver walks the moon. Wake on, my soul, nor crouch to agony: Turn cloud to light, and bitterness to joy, And dross to gold with glorious alchemy, Basing thy throne above the world's annoy. Reign thou above the storms of sorrow and ruth That roar beneath; unshaken peace hath won thee: So shall thou pierce the woven glooms of truth; So shall the blessing of the meek be on thee; So in thine hour of dawn, the body's youth, An honourable eld shall come upon thee.

Shall the hag Evil die with the child of Good, Or propagate again her loath?d kind, Thronging the cells of the diseased mind, Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered brood, Though hourly pastured on the salient blood? Oh! that the wind which bloweth cold or heat Would shatter and o'erbear the brazen beat Of their broad vans, and in the solitude Of middle space confound them, and blow back Their wild cries down their cavernthroats, and slake With points of blastborne hail their heated eyne! So their wan limbs no more might come between The moon and the moon's reflex in the night; Nor blot with floating shades the solar light.

The palid thunderstricken sigh for gain, Down an ideal stream they ever float, And sailing on Pactolus in a boat, Drown soul and sense, while wistfully they strain Weak eyes upon the glistering sands that robe The understream. The wise could he behold Cathedralled caverns of thick-ribb?d gold And branching silvers of the central globe, Would marvel from so beautiful a sight How scorn and ruin, pain and hate could flow: But Hatred in a gold cave sits below, Pleached with her hair, in mail of argent light Shot into gold, a snake her forehead clips And skins the colour from her trembling lips.

To know thee is all wisdom, and old age Is but to know thee: dimly we behold thee Athwart the veils of evil which enfold thee We beat upon our aching hearts with rage; We cry for thee: we deem the world thy tomb. As dwellers in lone planets look upon The mighty disk of their majestic sun, Hallowed in awful chasms of wheeling gloom, Making their day dim, so we gaze on thee. Come, thou of many crowns, white-rob?d love, Oh! rend the veil in twain: all men adore thee; Heaven crieth after thee; earth waileth for thee: Breathe on thy wing?d throne, and it shall move In music and in light o'er land and sea.

And now--methinks I gaze upon thee now, As on a serpent in his agonies Awestricken Indians; what time laid low And crushing the thick fragrant reeds he lies, When the new year warm breath?d on the earth, Waiting to light him with his purple skies, Calls to him by the fountain to uprise. Already with the pangs of a new birth Strain the hot spheres of his convuls?d eyes, And in his writhings awful hues begin To wander down his sable sheeny sides, Like light on troubled waters: from within Anon he rusheth forth with merry din, And in him light and joy and strength abides; And from his brows a crown of living light Looks through the thickstemmed woods by day and night

Who fears to die? Who fears to die? Is there any here who fears to die He shall find what he fears, and none shall grieve For the man who fears to die: But the withering scorn of the many shall cleave To the man who fears to die.

The hollow at heart shall crouch forlorn, He shall eat the bread of common scorn; It shall be steeped in the salt, salt tear, Shall be steeped in his own salt tear: Far better, far better he never were born Than to shame merry England here.

There standeth our ancient enemy; Hark! he shouteth--the ancient enemy! On the ridge of the hill his banners rise; They stream like fire in the skies; Hold up the Lion of England on high Till it dazzle and blind his eyes.

Come along! we alone of the earth are free; The child in our cradles is bolder than he; For where is the heart and strength of slaves? Oh! where is the strength of slaves? He is weak! we are strong; he a slave, we are free; Come along! we will dig their graves.

There standeth our ancient enemy; Will he dare to battle with the free? Spur along! spur amain! charge to the fight: Charge! charge to the fight! Hold up the Lion of England on high! Shout for God and our right!

There is no land like England Where'er the light of day be; There are no hearts like English hearts, Such hearts of oak as they be. There is no land like England Where'er the light of day be; There are no men like Englishmen, So tall and bold as they be.

There is no land like England, Where'er the light of day be; There are no wives like English wives, So fair and chaste as they be. There is no land like England, Where'er the light of day be, There are no maids like English maids, So beautiful as they be.

Two bees within a chrystal flowerbell rock?d Hum a lovelay to the westwind at noontide. Both alike, they buzz together, Both alike, they hum together Through and through the flowered heather.

Where in a creeping cove the wave unshock?d Lays itself calm and wide, Over a stream two birds of glancing feather Do woo each other, carolling together. Both alike, they glide together Side by side; Both alike, they sing together, Arching blue-gloss?d necks beneath the purple weather.

Two children lovelier than love, adown the lea are singing, As they gambol, lilygarlands ever stringing: Both in blosmwhite silk are frock?d: Like, unlike, they roam together Under a summervault of golden weather; Like, unlike, they sing together Side by side; Mid May's darling goldenlock?d, Summer's tanling diamondeyed.

All thoughts, all creeds, all dreams are true, All visions wild and strange; Man is the measure of all truth Unto himself. All truth is change: All men do walk in sleep, and all Have faith in that they dream: For all things are as they seem to all, And all things flow like a stream.

There is no rest, no calm, no pause, Nor good nor ill, nor light nor shade, Nor essence nor eternal laws: For nothing is, but all is made, But if I dream that all these are, They are to me for that I dream; For all things are as they seem to all, And all things flow like a stream.

Argal.--This very opinion is only true relatively to the flowing philosophers.

The lintwhite and the throstlecock Have voices sweet and clear; All in the bloom?d May. They from the blosmy brere Call to the fleeting year, If that he would them hear And stay. Alas! that one so beautiful Should have so dull an ear.

Fair year, fair year, thy children call, But thou art deaf as death; All in the bloom?d May. When thy light perisheth That from thee issueth, Our life evanisheth: Oh! stay. Alas! that lips so cruel dumb Should have so sweet a breath!

Fair year, with brows of royal love Thou comest, as a King. All in the bloom?d May. Thy golden largess fling, And longer hear us sing; Though thou art fleet of wing, Yet stay. Alas! that eyes so full of light Should be so wandering!

Thy locks are full of sunny sheen In rings of gold yronne, All in the bloom?d May, We pri' thee pass not on; If thou dost leave the sun, Delight is with thee gone, Oh! stay. Thou art the fairest of thy feres, We pri' thee pass not on.

With roses musky breathed, And drooping daffodilly, And silverleaved lily, And ivy darkly-wreathed, I wove a crown before her, For her I love so dearly, A garland for Lenora. With a silken cord I bound it. Lenora, laughing clearly A light and thrilling laughter, About her forehead wound it, And loved me ever after.

Check every outflash, every ruder sally Of thought and speech; speak low, and give up wholly Thy spirit to mild-minded Melancholy; This is the place. Through yonder poplar alley Below, the blue-green river windeth slowly; But in the middle of the sombre valley The crisp?d waters whisper musically, And all the haunted place is dark and holy. The nightingale, with long and low preamble, Warbled from yonder knoll of solemn larches, And in and out the woodbine's flowery arches The summer midges wove their wanton gambol, And all the white-stemmed pinewood slept above-- When in this valley first I told my love.

Me my own fate to lasting sorrow doometh: Thy woes are birds of passage, transitory: Thy spirit, circled with a living glory, In summer still a summer joy resumeth. Alone my hopeless melancholy gloometh, Like a lone cypress, through the twilight hoary, From an old garden where no flower bloometh, One cypress on an inland promontory. But yet my lonely spirit follows thine, As round the rolling earth night follows day: But yet thy lights on my horizon shine Into my night when thou art far away; I am so dark, alas! and thou so bright, When we two meet there's never perfect light.

XXX

There are three things that fill my heart with sighs And steep my soul in laughter , Dimples, roselips, and eyes of any hue.

There are three things beneath the blessed skies For which I live--black eyes, and brown and blue; I hold them all most dear; but oh! black eyes, I live and die, and only die for you.

I saw no more only those eyes--confused And dazzled to the heart with glorious pain.

Oh, Beauty, passing beauty! sweetest Sweet! How canst thou let me waste my youth in sighs; I only ask to sit beside thy feet. Thou knowest I dare not look into thine eyes, Might I but kiss thy hand! I dare not fold My arms about thee--scarcely dare to speak. And nothing seems to me so wild and bold, As with one kiss to touch thy bless?d cheek. Methinks if I should kiss thee, no control Within the thrilling brain could keep afloat The subtle spirit. Even while I spoke, The bare word KISS hath made my inner soul To tremble like a lutestring, ere the note Hath melted in the silence that it broke.

Hesperus and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. --COMUS.

The Northwind fall'n, in the newstarr?d night Zidonian Hanno, voyaging beyond The hoary promontory of Solo? Past Thymiaterion, in calm?d bays, Between the Southern and the Western Horn, Heard neither warbling of the nightingale, Nor melody o' the Lybian lotusflute Blown seaward from the shore; but from a slope That ran bloombright into the Atlantic blue, Beneath a highland leaning down a weight Of cliffs, and zoned below with cedarshade, Came voices, like the voices in a dream, Continuous till he reached the other sea.

The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit, Guard it well, guard it warily, Singing airily, Standing about the charm?d root. Round about all is mute, As the snowfield on the mountain-peaks, As the sandfield at the mountain-foot. Crocodiles in briny creeks Sleep and stir not: all is mute. If ye sing not, if ye make false measure, We shall lose eternal pleasure, Worth eternal want of rest. Laugh not loudly: watch the treasure Of the wisdom of the West. In a corner wisdom whispers. Five and three make an awful mystery. For the blossom unto three-fold music bloweth; Evermore it is born anew; And the sap to three-fold music floweth, From the root Drawn in the dark, Up to the fruit, Creeping under the fragrant bark, Liquid gold, honeysweet thro' and thro'. Keen-eyed Sisters, singing airily, Looking warily Every way, Guard the apple night and day, Lest one from the East come and take it away.

Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, ever and aye, Looking under silver hair with a silver eye. Father, twinkle not thy stedfast sight; Kingdoms lapse, and climates change, and races die; Honour comes with mystery; Hoarded wisdom brings delight. Number, tell them over and number How many the mystic fruit-tree holds, Lest the redcombed dragon slumber Rolled together in purple folds. Look to him, father, lest he wink, and the golden apple be stol'n away, For his ancient heart is drunk with overwatchings night and day, Round about the hallowed fruit tree curled-- Sing away, sing aloud and evermore in the wind, without stop, Lest his scal?d eyelid drop, For he is older than the world. If he waken, we waken, Rapidly levelling eager eyes. If he sleep, we sleep, Dropping the eyelid over the eyes. If the golden apple be taken The world will be overwise. Five links, a golden chain, are we, Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three, Bound about the golden tree.

Father Hesper, Father Hesper, watch, watch, night and day, Lest the old wound of the world be heal?d, The glory unseal?d, The golden apple stol'n away, And the ancient secret reveal?d. Look from west to east along: Father, old Himla weakens, Caucasus is bold and strong. Wandering waters unto wandering waters call; Let them clash together, foam and fall. Out of watchings, out of wiles, Comes the bliss of secret smiles, All things are not told to all, Half round the mantling night is drawn, Purplefringed with even and dawn. Hesper hateth Phosphor, evening hateth morn.

Every flower and every fruit the redolent breath Of this warm seawind ripeneth, Arching the billow in his sleep; But the land-wind wandereth, Broken by the highland-steep, Two streams upon the violet deep: For the western sun and the western star, And the low west wind, breathing afar, The end of day and beginning of night Make the apple holy and bright, Holy and bright, round and full, bright and blest, Mellowed in a land of rest; Watch it warily day and night; All good things are in the west, Till midnoon the cool east light Is shut out by the round of the tall hillbrow; But when the fullfaced sunset yellowly Stays on the flowering arch of the bough, The luscious fruitage clustereth mellowly, Goldenkernelled, goldencored, Sunset ripened, above on the tree, The world is wasted with fire and sword, But the apple of gold hangs over the sea, Five links, a golden chain, are we, Hesper, the dragon, and sisters three, Daughters three, Bound about All round about The gnarl?d bole of the charm?d tree, The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit, Guard it well, guard it warily, Watch it warily, Singing airily, Standing about the charm?d root.

My Rosalind, my Rosalind, Bold, subtle, careless Rosalind, Is one of those who know no strife Of inward woe or outward fear; To whom the slope and stream of life, The life before, the life behind, In the ear, from far and near, Chimeth musically clear. My falconhearted Rosalind Fullsailed before a vigorous wind, Is one of those who cannot weep For others' woes, but overleap All the petty shocks and fears That trouble life in early years, With a flash of frolic scorn And keen delight, that never falls Away from freshness, self-upborne With such gladness, as, whenever The freshflushing springtime calls To the flooding waters cool, Young fishes, on an April morn, Up and down a rapid river, Leap the little waterfalls That sing into the pebbled pool. My happy falcon, Rosalind, Hath daring fancies of her own, Fresh as the dawn before the day, Fresh as the early seasmell blown Through vineyards from an inland bay. My Rosalind, my Rosalind, Because no shadow on you falls, Think you hearts are tennis balls To play with, wanton Rosalind?

Who can say Why To-day To-morrow will be yesterday? Who can tell Why to smell The violet, recalls the dewy prime Of youth and buried time? The cause is nowhere found in rhyme.

Blow ye the trumpet, gather from afar The hosts to battle: be not bought and sold. Arise, brave Poles, the boldest of the bold; Break through your iron shackles--fling them far. O for those days of Piast, ere the Czar Grew to this strength among his deserts cold; When even to Moscow's cupolas were rolled The growing murmurs of the Polish war! Now must your noble anger blaze out more Than when from Sobieski, clan by clan, The Moslem myriads fell, and fled before-- Than when Zamoysky smote the Tartar Khan, Than earlier, when on the Baltic shore Boleslas drove the Pomeranian.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet