I murmur under moon and stars And out again I curve and flow For men may come and men may go, Lord Tennyson CCCLX As thro' the land at eve we went, And kiss'd again with tears. And blessings on the falling out When we fall out with those we love For when we came where lies the child There above the little grave, Lord Tennyson CCCLXI The splendour falls on castle walls Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, O hark, O hear! how thin and clear, The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! O love, they die in yon rich sky, Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, CCCLXII 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-awaken'd 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 remember'd kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd 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. Lord Tennyson CCCLXIII O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South, Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves, And tell her, tell her what I tell to thee. O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each, That bright and fierce and fickle is the South, And dark and true and tender is the North. O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill, And cheep and twitter twenty million loves. O were I thou that she might take me in, And lay me on her bosom, and her heart Would rock the snowy cradle till I died. Why lingereth she to clothe her heart with love, O tell her, Swallow, that thy brood is flown: O tell her, brief is life but love is long, O Swallow, flying from the golden woods, Fly to her, and pipe and woo her, and make her mine, And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee. Lord Tennyson CCCLXIV Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: Ring out the grief that saps the mind, Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring out the want, the care, the sin, Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in. Ring out false pride in place and blood, Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace. Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring in the Christ that is to be. Lord Tennyson CCCLXV Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, To faint in the light of the sun she loves, All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon; All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd Till a silence fell with the waking bird, I said to the lily, 'There is but one Low on the sand and loud on the stone I said to the rose, 'The brief night goes O young lord-lover, what sighs are those, But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the rose, And the soul of the rose went into my blood, As the music clash'd in the hall; And along by the garden lake I stood, For I heard your rivulet fall From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood, Our wood, that is dearer than all; |