"Moreover, something is or seems, That touches me with mystic gleams, Like glimpses of forgotten dreams— "Of something felt, like something here; Of something done, I know not where; Such as no language may declare." The still voice laugh'd. "I talk," said he, "Not with thy dreams, suffice it thee thy pain is a reality." "But thou," said I, "hast missed thy mark, Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark, By making all the horizon dark. "Why not set forth, if I should do This rashness, that which might ensue With this old soul in organs new? "Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath "'Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, Oh life, not death, for which we pant; More life, and fuller, that I want." I ceased, and sat as one forlorn. Then said the voice, in quiet scorn, "Behold it is the Sabbath morn". And I arose, and I released Like soften'd airs that blowing steal, On to God's house the people prest: One walk'd between his wife and child, And in their double love secure, These three made unity so sweet, I blest them, and they wander'd on : A second voice was at mine ear, A little whisper silver-clear, A murmur," Be of better cheer". As from some blissful neighbourhood, A notice faintly understood, "I see the end, and know the good". A little hint to solace woe, A hint, a whisper breathing low, I may not speak of what I know". Like an Eolian harp that wakes No certain air, but overtakes Far thought with music that it makes: "What is it thou knowest, sweet voice?" I cried. "A hidden hope," the voice replied: 1 Cf. Coleridge, Ancient Mariner, iv. :— "O happy living things I blessed them The self-same moment I could pray." There is a close parallel between the former and the latter state described here and in Coleridge's mystic allegory; in both cases the sufferers "wake to love," the curse falling off them when they can "bless". So heavenly-toned, that in that hour To feel, altho' no tongue can prove And forth into the fields I went, I wonder'd at the bounteous hours, I wonder'd, while I paced along : So variously seem'd all things wrought,1 And wherefore rather I made choice THE DAY-DREAM First published in 1842, but written in 1835. In it is incorporated, though with several alterations, The Sleeping Beauty, published among the poems of 1830, but excised in subsequent editions. Half extravaganza and half apologue, like the Midsummer Night's Dream, this delightful poem may be safely left to deliver its own message and convey its own meaning. It is an excellent illustration of the truth of Tennyson's own remark: Poetry is like shot silk with many glancing colours. Every reader must find his own interpretation according to his ability, and according to his sympathy with the poet." PROLOGUE No alteration has been made in the Prologue since 1842. O, Lady Flora, let me speak : A pleasant hour has Pasy away While, dreaming on your damask cheek, The dewy sister-eyelids lay. 11884. And all so variously wrought (with semi-colon instead of full stop at the end of the preceding line). As by the lattice you reclined, I went thro' many wayward moods Across my fancy, brooding warm, And loosely settled into form. And would you have the thought I had, And see the vision that I saw, Then take the broidery-frame, and add A crimson to the quaint Macaw, And I will tell it. Turn your face, Nor look with that too-earnest eye— The rhymes are dazzled from their place, And order'd words asunder fly. THE SLEEPING PALACE No alteration since 1851. 1 The varying year with blade and sheaf Clothes and reclothes the happy plains; Here rests the sap within the leaf, Here stays the blood along the veins. Faint shadows, vapours lightly curl'd, Faint murmurs from the meadows come, Like hints and echoes of the world To spirits folded in the womb. 2 of urns Soft lustre bathes the range 3 Roof-haunting martins warm their eggs: Droop sleepily: no sound is made, More like a picture seemeth all 4 Here sits the Butler with a flask Between his knees, half-drain'd; and there The wrinkled steward at his task, The maid-of-honour blooming fair: The page has caught her hand in his : His own are pouted to a kiss: The blush is fix'd upon her cheek. 5 Till all the hundred summers pass, The beams, that thro' the Oriel shine, And beaker brimm'd with noble wine. 6 All round a hedge upshoots, and shows And grapes with bunches red as blood; 1 All editions up to and including 1851 :— He must have been a jolly king. |