Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, And utterly consum'd with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness? All things have rest: why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are the first of things, Still from one sorrow to another thrown: Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? III Lo! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is wooed from out the bud Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, IV Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Death is the end of life; ah, why Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. In silence; ripen, fall, and cease: V How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem To dream and dream, like yonder amber To hear each other's whisper'd speech; To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, To muse and brood and live again in mem The Lotos blooms below the barren peak: The Lotos blows by every winding creek: All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. We have had enough of action, and of motion we, Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free, Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclin'd On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world: Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong; Chanted from an ill-us'd race of men that cleave the soil, Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; Till they perish and they suffer-some, 't is whisper'd-down in hell Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. That lov'd me, and alone; on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Myself not least, but honor'd of them all; Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move. Were all too little, and of one to me And this gray spirit yearning in desire This is my son, mine own Telemachus, Old age hath yet his honor 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. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Mov'd 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. SIR GALAHAD My good blade carves the casques of men, The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, They reel, they roll in clanging lists, And when the tide of combat stands, Perfume and flowers fall in showers, That lightly rain from ladies' hands. How sweet are looks that ladies bend To save from shame and thrall: My knees are bow'd in crypt and shrine: I never felt the kiss of love, Nor maiden's hand in mine. More bounteous aspects on me beam, Me mightier transports move and thrill; So keep I fair thro' faith and prayer A virgin heart in work and will. When down the stormy crescent goes, I hear a voice, but none are there ; The silver vessels sparkle clean, The shrill bell rings, the censer swings, And solemn chaunts resound between. Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres I find a magic bark; I leap on board: no helmsman steers : I float till all is dark. A gentle sound, an awful light! When on my goodly charger borne The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, But o'er the dark a glory spreads, And gilds the driving hail. A maiden knight-to me is given I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven I muse on joy that will not cease, Whose odors haunt my dreams; The clouds are broken in the sky, And thro' the mountain-walls A rolling organ-harmony Swells up, and shakes and falls. Then move the trees, the copses nod, Wings flutter, voices hover clear: "O just and faithful knight of God! Ride on the prize is near." So pass I hostel, hall, and grange; By bridge and ford, by park and pale, All-arm'd I ride, whate'er betide, Until I find the holy Grail. SIR LAUNCELOT AND QUEEN GUINEVERE LIKE Souls that balance joy and pain, With tears and smiles from heaven again The maiden Spring upon the plain In crystal vapor everywhere Sometimes the linnet pip'd his song: Above the teeming ground. Now on some twisted ivy-net, As fast she fled thro' sun and shade, The rein with dainty finger-tips, 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. |