Poetry
I thought those who chance upon this blog would appreciate a small selection from the poetry that I have been reading of late.
Tennyson
Fragments:
"Come not when I am dead,
To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,
To trample round my fallen head,
And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save.
There let the wind sweep and the clover cry;
But thou, go by.
Child, if it were thine error or thy crime
I care no longer, being all unblest:
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,
And I desire to rest.
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie:
Go by, go by."
"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 heaven 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 the day that is dead,
Will never come back to me."
The Poet's song
"The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,
He pass'd by the town and out of the street,
A light wind blew from the gates of the sun,
And waves of shadow went over the wheat,
And he sat him down in a lonely place,
And chanted a melody loud and sweet,
That made the sild-swan pause in her cloud,
And the lark drop down at his feet.
The shallow stopt as he hunted the bee,
The snake slipt under a spray,
The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak,
And stared, with his foot on the prey,
And the nightingale thought, 'I have sung many songs,
But never a one so gay,
For he sings of what the world will be
When the years have died away.'"
EPILOGUE
Irene.
Not this way will you set your name
A star among the stars.
Poet.
What way?
Irene.
You praise when you should blame
The barbarism of wars.
A juster epoch has begun.
Poet.
Yet tho’ this cheek be gray,
And that bright hair the modern sun,
Those eyes the blue to-day,
You wrong me, passionate little friend.
I would that wars should cease,
I would the globe from end to end
Might sow and reap in peace,
And some new Spirit o’erbear the old,
Or Trade re-frain the Powers
From war with kindly links of gold,
Or Love with wreaths of flowers.
Slav, Teuton, Kelt, I count them all
My friends and brother souls,
With all the peoples, great and small,
That wheel between the poles.
But since our mortal shadow, Ill,
To waste this earth began–
Perchance from some abuse of Will
In worlds before the man
Involving ours–he needs must fight
To make true peace his own,
He needs must combat might with might,
Or Might would rule alone;
And who loves war for war’s own sake
Is fool, or crazed, or worse;
But let the patriot-soldier take
His meed of fame in verse;
Nay–tho’ that realm were in the wrong
For which her warriors bleed,
It still were right to crown with song
The warrior’s noble deed–
A crown the Singer hopes may last,
For so the deed endures;
But Song will vanish in the Vast;
And that large phrase of yours
‘A star among the stars,’ my dear,
Is girlish talk at best;
For dare we dally with the sphere
As he did half in jest,
Old Horace? ‘I will strike,’ said he,
‘The stars with head sublime,’
But scarce could see, as now we see,
The man in space and time,
So drew perchance a happier lot
Than ours, who rhyme to-day.
The fires that arch this dusky dot–
Yon myriad-worlded way–
The vast sun-clusters’ gather’d blaze,
World-isles in lonely skies,
Whole heavens within themselves, amaze
Our brief humanities.
And so does Earth; for Homer’s fame,
Tho’ carved in harder stone–
The falling drop will make his name
As mortal as my own.
Irene.
No!
Poet.
Let it live then–ay, till when?
Earth passes, all is lost
In what they prophesy, our wise men,
Sun-flame or sunless frost,
And deed and song alike are swept
Away, and all in vain
As far as man can see, except
The man himself remain;
And tho’, in this lean age forlorn,
Too many a voice may cry
That man can have no after-morn,
Not yet of those am I.
The man remains, and whatsoe’er
He wrought of good or brave
Will mould him thro’ the cycle-year
That dawns behind the grave.
________________
And here the Singer for his art
Not all in vain may plead
‘The song that nerves a nation’s heart
Is in itself a deed.’
Wordsworth
Beside the springs of Dove,
Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the Eye!
---Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky!
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and Oh!
The difference to me."
She Was a Phantom of Delight
"She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
I saw her upon a nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveler between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warm, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright,
With something of angelic light."
Composed in the Valley, near Dover
"Dear fellow Traveller! here we are once more.
The Cock that crows, the Smoke that curls, that sound
Of Bells, those Boys that in yon meadow-ground
In white sleeved shirts are playing by the score,
And even this little River's gentle roar,
All, all are English. Oft have I looked round
With joy in Kent's green vales; but never found
Myself so satisfied in heart before.
Europe is yet in Bonds; but let that pass,
Thought for another moment. Thou art free
My Country! and 'tis joy enough and pride
For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the grass
Of England once again, and hear and see,
With such a dear Companion at my side."
Composed Upon Westminster Bridge
"Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!"
"Are souls then nothing?"
"Are souls then nothing? Must at length the die
Be cast by weight of multitudes? Shall hoardes
Of Slaves triumphant over noble words
And noble thoughts and ancient liberty
Deal with us as they would with sheep and tie
Our hands behind our backs with felon cords?
Yields everything to outnumbering of swords?
Is man as good as man? none low, none high?
This was not once the doctrine of our Land;
Then would we say great storms there are that nurse
Themselves in little clouds, a pretty Band
Of gallant hearts to be an enemy's curse
Hath might beyond the might of Moses' want;
God helps the brave to scatter man and horse."
(I would also like to recommend "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood" by Wordsworth. It is too long to copy down.)
Tennyson
Fragments:
"Come not when I am dead,
To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,
To trample round my fallen head,
And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save.
There let the wind sweep and the clover cry;
But thou, go by.
Child, if it were thine error or thy crime
I care no longer, being all unblest:
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,
And I desire to rest.
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie:
Go by, go by."
"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 heaven 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 the day that is dead,
Will never come back to me."
The Poet's song
"The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,
He pass'd by the town and out of the street,
A light wind blew from the gates of the sun,
And waves of shadow went over the wheat,
And he sat him down in a lonely place,
And chanted a melody loud and sweet,
That made the sild-swan pause in her cloud,
And the lark drop down at his feet.
The shallow stopt as he hunted the bee,
The snake slipt under a spray,
The wild hawk stood with the down on his beak,
And stared, with his foot on the prey,
And the nightingale thought, 'I have sung many songs,
But never a one so gay,
For he sings of what the world will be
When the years have died away.'"
EPILOGUE
Irene.
Not this way will you set your name
A star among the stars.
Poet.
What way?
Irene.
You praise when you should blame
The barbarism of wars.
A juster epoch has begun.
Poet.
Yet tho’ this cheek be gray,
And that bright hair the modern sun,
Those eyes the blue to-day,
You wrong me, passionate little friend.
I would that wars should cease,
I would the globe from end to end
Might sow and reap in peace,
And some new Spirit o’erbear the old,
Or Trade re-frain the Powers
From war with kindly links of gold,
Or Love with wreaths of flowers.
Slav, Teuton, Kelt, I count them all
My friends and brother souls,
With all the peoples, great and small,
That wheel between the poles.
But since our mortal shadow, Ill,
To waste this earth began–
Perchance from some abuse of Will
In worlds before the man
Involving ours–he needs must fight
To make true peace his own,
He needs must combat might with might,
Or Might would rule alone;
And who loves war for war’s own sake
Is fool, or crazed, or worse;
But let the patriot-soldier take
His meed of fame in verse;
Nay–tho’ that realm were in the wrong
For which her warriors bleed,
It still were right to crown with song
The warrior’s noble deed–
A crown the Singer hopes may last,
For so the deed endures;
But Song will vanish in the Vast;
And that large phrase of yours
‘A star among the stars,’ my dear,
Is girlish talk at best;
For dare we dally with the sphere
As he did half in jest,
Old Horace? ‘I will strike,’ said he,
‘The stars with head sublime,’
But scarce could see, as now we see,
The man in space and time,
So drew perchance a happier lot
Than ours, who rhyme to-day.
The fires that arch this dusky dot–
Yon myriad-worlded way–
The vast sun-clusters’ gather’d blaze,
World-isles in lonely skies,
Whole heavens within themselves, amaze
Our brief humanities.
And so does Earth; for Homer’s fame,
Tho’ carved in harder stone–
The falling drop will make his name
As mortal as my own.
Irene.
No!
Poet.
Let it live then–ay, till when?
Earth passes, all is lost
In what they prophesy, our wise men,
Sun-flame or sunless frost,
And deed and song alike are swept
Away, and all in vain
As far as man can see, except
The man himself remain;
And tho’, in this lean age forlorn,
Too many a voice may cry
That man can have no after-morn,
Not yet of those am I.
The man remains, and whatsoe’er
He wrought of good or brave
Will mould him thro’ the cycle-year
That dawns behind the grave.
________________
And here the Singer for his art
Not all in vain may plead
‘The song that nerves a nation’s heart
Is in itself a deed.’
Wordsworth
Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind
"Surprised by joy — impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport--Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss?--That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore."
A Complaint
"There is a change--and I am poor;
Your Love hath been, nor long ago,
A Fountain at my fond HEart's door,
Whose only business was to flow;
And flow it did; not taking heed
Of its own bounty, or my need.
What happy moments did I count!
Blessed was I then all bliss above!
Now, for this consecrated Fount
Of murmuring, sparkling, living love,
what have I? Shall I dare to tell?
A comfortless, and hidden WELL.
A Well of love--it may be deep--
I trust it is, and never dry:
What matter? if the Waters sleep
In silence and obscurity.
--Such change, and at the very door
Of my fond HEart hath made me poor."
She Dwelt Among Untrodden Ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love.
A violet by a mossy stone
Half-hidden from the Eye!
---Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky!
She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and Oh!
The difference to me."
She Was a Phantom of Delight
"She was a phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment's ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight's, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
I saw her upon a nearer view,
A Spirit, yet a Woman too!
Her household motions light and free,
And steps of virgin liberty;
A countenance in which did meet
Sweet records, promises as sweet;
A Creature not too bright or good
For human nature's daily food;
For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears and smiles.
And now I see with eye serene
The very pulse of the machine;
A Being breathing thoughtful breath,
A Traveler between life and death;
The reason firm, the temperate will,
Endurance, foresight, strength, and skill;
A perfect Woman, nobly planned,
To warm, to comfort, and command;
And yet a Spirit still, and bright,
With something of angelic light."
Composed in the Valley, near Dover
"Dear fellow Traveller! here we are once more.
The Cock that crows, the Smoke that curls, that sound
Of Bells, those Boys that in yon meadow-ground
In white sleeved shirts are playing by the score,
And even this little River's gentle roar,
All, all are English. Oft have I looked round
With joy in Kent's green vales; but never found
Myself so satisfied in heart before.
Europe is yet in Bonds; but let that pass,
Thought for another moment. Thou art free
My Country! and 'tis joy enough and pride
For one hour's perfect bliss, to tread the grass
Of England once again, and hear and see,
With such a dear Companion at my side."
Composed Upon Westminster Bridge
"Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!"
"Are souls then nothing?"
"Are souls then nothing? Must at length the die
Be cast by weight of multitudes? Shall hoardes
Of Slaves triumphant over noble words
And noble thoughts and ancient liberty
Deal with us as they would with sheep and tie
Our hands behind our backs with felon cords?
Yields everything to outnumbering of swords?
Is man as good as man? none low, none high?
This was not once the doctrine of our Land;
Then would we say great storms there are that nurse
Themselves in little clouds, a pretty Band
Of gallant hearts to be an enemy's curse
Hath might beyond the might of Moses' want;
God helps the brave to scatter man and horse."
(I would also like to recommend "Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood" by Wordsworth. It is too long to copy down.)
