Thursday Text: from Ulysses

I was reminded again recently of how much I love Tennyson.  Here's a bit from Ulysses that you might be familiar with:

Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved 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. 

Thursday Text: Ring Out Wild Bells

I realize that we're more than halfway through January, but I've been thinking about this text: Ring Out Wild Bells from In Memoriam by Alfred Lord Tennyson.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light;

The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

For those that here we see no more,

Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;

Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;

Ring out, ring out thy mournful rhymes,

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,

The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

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 out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Thursday Text: Tears, Idle Tears

I've been in the mood for poetry lately. Here's one of Tennyson's that I love.

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-awakened 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 remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
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!

Thursday Text: Tennyson Transformed

When we were at the Tate, I saw a book in the gift shop called Tennyson Transformed. It explores the connection between Tennyson's poetry and the visual culture of the Victorian Age, notably the Pre-Raphaelites. The work on the cover is one of the many dramatic depictions of the Lady of Shalott. Fascinating.

Thursday Text: In Memoriam

It's Tennyson again this week. One of his best-known poems, from which the text for Ring Out, Wild Bells comes, is In Memoriam. It was written over a period of years following the passing of a good friend from Cambridge who was engaged to Tennyson's sister. I'm just going to include a portion of the text as we have just marked the 10th year since Tony's best friend passed away (car accident) and are approaching the 7th year since my late husband passed away (also car accident). We have learned much in our lives and about life since then.

Could I have said while he was here,
`My love shall now no further range;
There cannot come a mellower change,
For now is love mature in ear'?

Love, then, had hope of richer store:
What end is here to my complaint?
This haunting whisper makes me faint,
'More years had made me love thee more.'

But Death returns an answer sweet:
`My sudden frost was sudden gain,
And gave all ripeness to the grain,
It might have drawn from after-heat.'

Thursday Text: The Lady of Shalott

The classic poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson has always been one of my favorites.

On either side the river lie
  Long fields of barley and of rye,
  That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
  And thro' the field the road runs by
  To many-tower'd Camelot;
  And up and down the people go,
  Gazing where the lilies blow
  Round an island there below,
  The island of Shalott. 

  Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 
  Little breezes dusk and shiver
  Thro' the wave that runs for ever
  By the island in the river
  Flowing down to Camelot.
  Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
  Overlook a space of flowers,
  And the silent isle imbowers
  The Lady of Shalott.

  By the margin, willow-veil'd
  Slide the heavy barges trail'd
  By slow horses; and unhail'd
  The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
  Skimming down to Camelot:
  But who hath seen her wave her hand?
  Or at the casement seen her stand?
  Or is she known in all the land,
  The Lady of Shalott? 

  Only reapers, reaping early
  In among the bearded barley,
  Hear a song that echoes cheerly
  From the river winding clearly,
  Down to tower'd Camelot:
  And by the moon the reaper weary,
  Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
  Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy
  Lady of Shalott". 

  There she weaves by night and day
  A magic web with colours gay.
  She has heard a whisper say,
  A curse is on her if she stay 
  To look down to Camelot.
  She knows not what the 'curse' may be,
  And so she weaveth steadily,
  And little other care hath she,
  The Lady of Shalott.

  And moving thro' a mirror clear
  That hangs before her all the year,
  Shadows of the world appear.
  There she sees the highway near
  Winding down to Camelot:
  There the river eddy whirls,
  And there the surly village-churls, 
  And the red cloaks of market girls,
  Pass onward from Shalott.

  Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
  An abbot on an ambling pad,
  Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
  Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
  Goes by to tower'd Camelot;

  And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
  The knights come riding two and two:
  She hath no loyal knight and true,
  The Lady of Shalott.

  But in her web she still delights
  To weave the mirror's magic sights,
  For often thro' the silent nights
  A funeral, with plumes and lights,
  And music, went to Camelot: 
  Or when the moon was overhead,
  Came two young lovers lately wed;
  "I am half-sick of shadows," said
  The Lady of Shalott. 

  A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
  He rode between the barley sheaves,
  The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
  And flamed upon the brazen greaves
  Of bold Sir Lancelot.
  A redcross knight for ever kneel'd
  To a lady in his shield,
  That sparkled on the yellow field,
  Beside remote Shalott.

  The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
  Like to some branch of stars we see
  Hung in the golden Galaxy. 
  The bridle bells rang merrily
  As he rode down to Camelot:
  And from his blazon'd baldric slung
  A mighty silver bugle hung,
  And as he rode his armour rung,
  Beside remote Shalott.

  All in the blue unclouded weather
  Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
  The helmet and the helmet-feather
  Burn'd like one burning flame together,
  As he rode down to Camelot. 
  As often thro' the purple night,
  Below the starry clusters bright,
  Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
  Moves over still Shalott. 

  His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
  On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
  From underneath his helmet flow'd
  His coal-black curls as on he rode,
  As he rode down to Camelot. 
  From the bank and from the river
  He flashed into the crystal mirror,
  "Tirra lirra," by the river 
  Sang Sir Lancelot.

  She left the web, she left the loom;
  She made three paces thro' the room,
  She saw the water-lily bloom,
  She saw the helmet and the plume,
  She look'd down to Camelot.
  Out flew the web and floated wide;
  The mirror crack'd from side to side;
  "The curse is come upon me," cried
  The Lady of Shalott.

  In the stormy east-wind straining,
  The pale yellow woods were waning,
  The broad stream in his banks complaining,
  Heavily the low sky raining
  Over tower'd Camelot;
  Down she came and found a boat
  Beneath a willow left afloat,
  And round about the prow she wrote
  'The Lady of Shalott.' 

  And down the river's dim expanse--
  Like some bold seër in a trance,
  Seeing all his own mischance--
  With a glassy countenance
  Did she look to Camelot.
  And at the closing of the day
  She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
  The broad stream bore her far away,
  The Lady of Shalott.

  Lying, robed in snowy white
  That loosely flew to left and right--
  The leaves upon her falling light--
  Thro' the noises of the night
  She floated down to Camelot;
  And as the boat-head wound along
  The willowy hills and fields among,
  They heard her singing her last song,
  The Lady of Shalott. 

  Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
  Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
  Till her blood was frozen slowly,
  And her eyes were darken'd wholly, 
  Turn'd to tower'd Camelot;
  For ere she reach'd upon the tide
  The first house by the water-side,
  Singing in her song she died,
  The Lady of Shalott.

  Under tower and balcony,
  By garden-wall and gallery,
  A gleaming shape she floated by,
  Dead-pale between the houses high,
  Silent into Camelot.
  Out upon the wharfs they came,
  Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
  And round the prow they read her name,
  'The Lady of Shalott' 

  Who is this? and what is here?
  And in the lighted palace near
  Died the sound of royal cheer;
  And they cross'd themselves for fear,
  All the knights at Camelot:
  But Lancelot mused a little space;
  He said, "She has a lovely face;
  God in his mercy lend her grace,
  The Lady of Shalott".