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(1832, 1842) "Courage!” he said, and pointed toward
the land, “This mounting wave will roll us shore
ward soon." In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemèd always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon,
5 Breathing like one that hath a weary
dream. Full-faced above the valley stood the
moon; And, like a downward smoke, the slender
stream Along the cliff to fall, and pause, and fall,
A land of streams! Some, like a down
ward smoke, Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did
go; And some through wavering lights and
shadows broke, Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. They saw the gleaming river seaward flow From the inner land; far off, three moun
tain-tops, Three silent pinnacles of aged snow, Stood sunset-flushed; and, dewed with
showery drops, Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the
Most weary seemed the sea, weary the
oar, Weary the wandering fields of barren
foam. Then some one said, “We will return no
more;" And all at once they sang, “Our island
home Is far beyond the wave: we will no longer roam.”
Falls, and floats adown the air.
Lo! sweetened with the summer light,
The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, There is sweet music here that softer Drops in a silent autumn night. falls
All its allotted length of days Than petals from blown roses
The flower ripens in its place, grass;
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.
Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. the blissful skies.
Death is the end of life: ah, why Here are cool mosses deep,
Should life all labor be? And through the moss the ivies creep,
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers
And in a little while our lips are dumb. weep,
Let us alone. What is it that will last? 90 And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs
All things are taken from us, and become in sleep.
Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have Why are we weighed upon with heaviness, To war with evil? Is there any peace And utterly consumed with sharp distress, In ever climbing up the climbing wave? While all things else have
All things have rest, and ripen toward the weariness?
grave All things have rest: why should we toil In silence; ripen, fall, and cease: alone,
Give us long rest or death, dark death, We only toil, who the first of or dreamful ease.
things, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown;
How sweet it were, hearing the downward Nor ever fold our wings,
stream, And cease from wanderings,
With half-shut eyes ever to seem Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy
Falling asleep in a half-dream! balm;
To dream and dream, like yonder amber Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,
light, “There is no joy but calm!".
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on Why should we only toil, the roof and
the height; crown of things?
To hear each other's whispered speech;
To watch the crisping ripples on the Lo! in the middle of the wood,
beach, The folded leaf is wooed from out the bud And tender curving lines of creamy spray; With winds upon the branch, and there To lend our hearts and spirits wholly Grows green and broad, and takes no To the influence of mild-minded melancare,
choly; Sun-steeped at noon, and in the moon To muse and brood and live again in memNightly dew-fed; and turning yellow 75
With those old faces of our infancy Through many a woven acanthus-wreath Heaped over with a mound of grass,
divine ! Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling of brass !
brine Only to hear were sweet, stretched out
beneath the pine. Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of
wives And their warm tears. But all hath suf The lotos blooms below the barren fered change;
145 For surely now our household hearths are The lotos blows by every winding creek;
All day the wind breathes low with melOur
lower tone: strange,
Through every hollow cave and alley lone, And we should come like ghosts to trouble Round and round the spicy downs, the joy.
yellow lotos-dust is blown, Or else the island princes, overbold, We have had enough of action, and of Have eat our substance; and the minstrel sings
Rolled to starboard, rolled to larboard, Before them of the ten years' war in Troy, when the surge was seething free, And our great deeds, as half-forgotten Where the wallowing monster spouted his things.
foam-fountains in the sea. Is there confusion in the little isle?
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an Let what is broken so remain.
equal mind, The gods are hard to reconcile ;
In the hollow Lotos-land to live, and lie 'Tis hard to settle order once again.
reclined There is confusion worse than death, On the hills like gods together, careless of Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,
mankind. Long labor unto aged breath,
For they lie beside their nectar, and the Sore task to hearts worn out by many bolts are hurled wars,
Far below them in the valleys, and the And eyes grown dim with gazing on the clouds are lightly curled pilot-stars.
Round their golden houses, girdled with
the gleaming world;
Where they smile in secret, looking over But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, wasted lands, How sweet, — while warm airs lull us, Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, blowing lowly,
roaring deeps and fiery sands, With half-dropt eyelid still,
Clanging fights, and Aaming towns, and Beneath a heaven dark and holy,
sinking ships, and praying hands. To watch the long, bright river drawing But they smile: they find a music centred slowly
in a doleful song His waters, from the purple hill;
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient To hear the dewy echoes calling
tale of wrong, cave through the thick Like a tale of little meaning though the twinèd vine;
words are strong; To watch the emerald-colored water fall Chanted from an ill-used race of men that ing
cleave the soil,
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with She, leaning on a fragment twined with enduring toil,
vine, Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and Sang to the stillness till the mountainwine, and oil;
shade Till they perish and they suffer
some, Sloped downward to her seat from the 'tis whispered, down in hell Suffer endless anguish, - others in Elysian valleys dwell,
“O mother Ida, many fountained Ida, Resting weary limbs at last on beds of Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. asphodel.
For now the noonday quiet holds the hill: Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than
The grasshopper is silent in the grass; 25 toil, — the shore
The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, Than labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind Rests like a shadow; and the winds are and wave and oar:
dead. O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not
The purple flower droops; the golden bee wander more.
Is lily-cradled: I alone awake.
My heart is breaking and my eyes are ENONE
dim, (1832, 1842)
And I all
“O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida,
Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. The swimming vapor slopes athwart the
Hear me, O earth; hear me, 0 hills, O glen, Puts forth an arm, and creeps from pine
That house the cold-crowned snake! 0 to pine,
mountain-brooks, And loiters, slowly drawn. On either
I am the daughter of a river-god: hand The lawns and meadow-ledges midway
Hear me, for I will speak, and build up all
My sorrow with my song, as yonder walls down
Rose slowly to a music slowly breathed, 40 Hang rich in flowers; and far below them
A cloud that gathered shape; for it may be
That, while I speak of it, a little while The long brook falling through the cloven
My heart may wander from its deeper ravine In cataract after cataract to the sea. Behind the valley topmost Gargarus
“O mother Ida, many-fountained Ida, Stands up and takes the morning; but in Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. front.
I waited underneath the dawning hills: The gorges, opening wide apart, reveal Aloft, the mountain-lawn was dewy-dark. Troas, and Ilion's columned citadel, And dewy-dark aloft the mountain-pine. The crown of Troas.
Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, Hither came at noon Leading a jet-black goat white-horned, Mournful CEnone, wandering forlorn
white-hooved, Of Paris, once her playmate on the hills. Came up from reedy Simoïs all alone. Her cheek had lost the rose, and round her neck
“O mother Ida, harken ere I die. Floated her hair, or seemed to float in Far off, the torrent called me from the rest.
Far up, the solitary morning smote The streaks of virgin snow. With downdropt eyes
55 I sat alone: White-breasted like a star Fronting the dawn, he moved; a leopard
skin Drooped from his shoulder, but his sunny
hair Clustered about his temples like a god's; And his cheek brightened as the foam-bow
brightens When the wind blows the foam: and all
Behind yon whispering tuft of oldest pine, Mayst well behold them unbeheld; un
heard, Hear all; and see thy Paris judge of gods."
Went forth to embrace him coming ere he
"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He smiled; and opening out his milk-white
"Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. It was the deep midnoon; one silvery
cloud Had lost his way between the piny sides Of this long glen. Then to the bower they
came, Naked they
that smoothswarded bower: And at their feet the crocus brake like fire, Violet, amaracus, and asphodel,
95 Lotos, and lilies; and a wind arose, And overhead the wandering ivy and vine, This way and that, in many a wild festoon Ran riot, garlanding the gnarlèd boughs With bunch and berry and Aower through
Disclosed fruit of pure Hesperian
gold, That smelt ambrosially; and while I
looked And listened, the full-flowing river of
speech Came down upon my heart:
‘My own (Enone, Beautiful-browed Enone, my own soul, Behold this fruit, whose gleaming rind
ingraven “For the most fair” would seem to award
it thine, As lovelier than whatever oread haunt The knolls of Ida, loveliest in all grace Of movement, and the charm of married
"O mother Ida, harken ere I die. On the tree-tops a crested peacock lit, And o'er him fowed a golden cloud, and
leaned Upon him, slowly dropping fragrant dew. Then first I heard the voice of her to
whom Coming through heaven, like a light that
grows Larger and clearer, with one mind the
gods Rise up for reverence. She to Paris made Proffer of royal power, ample rule Unquestioned, — overflowing revenue Wherewith to embellish state, 'from many
a vale, And river-sundered champaign clothed
“Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die. He pressed the blossom of his lips to mine, And added:
cast upon the board, When all the full-faced presence of the
gods Ranged in the halls of Peleus; whereupon Rose feud, with question unto whom
'twere due. But light-foot Iris brought it yester-eve, Delivering, that to me, by common voice Elected umpire, Here comes today,
Or labored mine undrainable of ore. Honor,' she said, “and homage, tax and
toll, From many an inland town, and haven