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# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)

First published in 1842, this transcription is of the second edition of 1843. "The first volume contains, with a few additions of early date, including the Third Part of 'The May Queen,' a small selection (afterwards considerably amended) from the Poems of 1830 and 1832, many of the latter being considerably altered or re-written, and 'The Sleeping Beauty' (from the volume of 1830), being relegated to the second volume to form a section of the longer poem of 'The Day-Dream.' The second volume (with the exception just named, and that of 'St. Agnes') consisted of poems previously unpublished." from The Bibliography of Tennyson (1896), by Richard Herne Shepherd.
* Volume 1
* Volume 2
This work was published before January 1, 1929, and is in the public domain worldwide because the author died at least 100 years ago.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 1/"Of Old Sat Freedom On the Heights"

Of old sat Freedom on the heights, The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights: She heard the torrents meet.
Within her place she did rejoice, Self-gather'd in her prophet-mind, But fragments of her mighty voice Came rolling on the wind.
Then stept she down thro' town and field To mingle with the human race, And part by part to men reveal'd The fullness of her face—
Grave mother of majestic works, From her isle-altar gazing down. Who, God-like, grasps the triple forks, And, King-like, wears the crown:
Her open eyes desire the truth. The wisdom of a thousand years Is in them. May perpetual youth Keep dry their light from tears;
That her fair form may stand and shine, Make bright our days and light our dreams, Turning to scorn with lips divine The falsehood of extremes!
# Poems (Tennyson, 1833)/To J. S.

TO J. S.
i.
⁠More softly round the open wold, And gently comes the world to those ⁠That are cast in gentle mould.
ii.
⁠Or else I had not dared to flow In these words toward you, and invade ⁠Even with a verse your holy woe.
iii.
⁠Those in whose laps our limbs are nurst, Fall into shadow, soonest lost: ⁠Those we love first are taken first.
iv.
⁠He lends us; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve ⁠Falls off, and love is left alone.
v.
⁠In grief I am not all unlearned: Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass; ⁠One went, who never hath returned.
vi.
⁠Once more. Two years his chair is seen Empty before us. That was he ⁠Without whose life I had not been.
vii.
⁠Rose with you thro' a little arc Of heaven, nor having wandered far, ⁠Shot on the sudden into dark.
viii.
⁠I honour and his living worth: A man more pure and bold and just ⁠Was never born into the earth.
ix.
⁠Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. Great Nature is more wise than I: ⁠I will not tell you not to weep.
x.
⁠Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain, I will not even preach to you, ⁠"Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain."
xi.
⁠She loveth her own anguish deep More than much pleasure. Let her will ⁠Be done—to weep or not to weep.
xii.
⁠Of Death is blown in every wind;" For that is not a common chance ⁠That takes away a noble mind.
xiii.
⁠In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun, ⁠And dwells in heaven half the night.
xiv.
⁠Cast down her eyes, and in her throat Her voice seemed distant, and a tear ⁠Dropt on my tablets as I wrote.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1833)/To —

TO ———
i.
Nor wandered into other ways: I have not lacked thy mild reproof, Nor golden largess of thy praise, But life is full of weary days.
ii.
Of that deep grave to which I go. Shake hands once more: I cannot sink So far—far down, but I shall know Thy voice, and answer from below.
iii.
The fourhanded mole shall scrape, Plant thou no dusky cypresstree, Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape, But pledge me in the flowing grape.
iv.
Grow green beneath the showery gray, And rugged barks begin to bud, And through damp holts, newflushed with May, Ring sudden langhters of the Jay;
v.
And on my clay her darnels grow. Come only, when the days are still, And at my headstone whisper low, And tell me if the woodbines blow,
vi.
Undimmed, if bees are on the wing: Then cease, my friend, a little while, That I may hear the throstle sing His bridal song, the boast of spring.
vii.
Of bubbling wells that fret the stones, (If any sense in me remains) Thy words will be; thy cheerful tones As welcome to my crumbling hones.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1833)/The Sisters

THE SISTERS
# Poems (Tennyson, 1843)/Volume 1

POEMS.
BY
ALFRED TENNYSON.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
SECOND EDITION.
LONDON: EDWARD MOXON, DOVER STREET. MDCCCXLIII.
LONDON: BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
CONTENTS
OF
VOLUME THE FIRST.
The second division of this volume was published in the winter of 1832. Some of the poems have been considerably altered. Others have been added, which, with one exception, were written in 1833.
LONDON: BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1833)/The Palace of Art

THE PALACE OF ART.
* ↑ When I first conceived the plan of the Palace of Art, I intended to have Introduced both sculptures and paintings into it; but it is the most difficult of all things to devise a statue in verse. Judge whether I have succeeded in the statues of Elijah and Olympias. One was the Tishbite whom the raven fed, As when he stood on Carmel-steeps, With one arm stretched out bare, and mocked and said, "Come cry aloud—be sleeps." Tall, eager, lean and strong, his cloak windborne Behind, his forehead heavenly-bright From the clear marble pouring glorious scorn, Lit as with inner light. One was Olympias: the floating snake Rolled round her ancles, round her waist Knotted, and folded once about her neck, Her perfect lips to taste Round by the shoulder moved; she seeming blythe Declined her head: on every side The dragon's curves melted and mingled with The woman's youthful pride Of rounded limbs.
* ↑ Il maëstro di color chi sanno.-Dante, Inf, iii.
* ↑ If the Poem were not already too long, I should have inserted in the text the following stanzas, expressive of the joy wherewith the soul contemplated the results of astronomical experiment. In the centre of the four quadrangles rose an immense tower.Hither, when all the deep unsounded skies Shuddered with silent stars, she clomb, And as with optic glasses her keen eyes Pierced thro' the mystic dome, Regions of lucid matter taking forms, Brushes of fire, hazy gleams, Clusters and beds of worlds, and bee-like swarms Of suns, and starry streams. She saw the snowy poles of moonless Mars, That marvellous round of milky light Below Orion, and those double stars Whereof the one more bright Is circled by the other, &c.
# Poems (Tennyson, 1833)/To Christopher North

TO CHRISTOPHER NORTH.
You did late review my lays, Crusty Christopher; You did mingle blame and praise, Rusty Christopher. When I learnt from whom it came, I forgave you all the blame, Musty Christopher; I could not forgive the praise, Fusty Christopher.
# Poems (Eddy)/Autumn

Written in girlhood, in a maple grove.
# Poems (Eddy)/Dedication of a Temperance Hall

Lynn, Mass., August 4, 1866.
# Poems (Eddy)/Easter Morn

Pleasant View, Concord, N. H., April 18, 1900.
# Poems (Eddy)/Christmas Morn

December, 1898.
# Poems (Eddy)/Constancy

Written many years ago.
# Poems (Toke)/Sonnet (Ye bring your portion to the world with ye)

March 31, 1842.
# Poems (Toke)/Sunset in autumn

October 27, 1834.
# Poems (Toke)/The absent group

February 23, 1844.
# Poems (Toke)/Sonnet (Thou enviest the gift of poesy)

April 20, 1850.
# Poems (Toke)/Sonnet (Welcome, grave Autumn! though thy fading flowers)

October 6, 1850.
# Poems (Toke)/Sunset

Torquay, January 31, 1831.
# Poems (Toke)/Spring

May, 1839.
# Poems (Toke)/Stanzas

May 21, 1836.
# Poems (Victor)/Beautiful Soul

BEAUTIFUL SOUL.
Stay, Soul Beautiful, stay, oh, stay! Listen again to my crying, dear; Pause even while pursuing your way To your home in heaven's most shining sphere.
Beautiful Soul, how came you so fair? Did God when He made you leave out sin,— With so little of earth and so much of air That the dust fell away from the spirit within?
As a drop of dew in its delicate sphere Holds imprisoned a globe of the morning light, And exhaling frees to the amosphere The molecule of sun it has stayed in its flight,
So you lived in your beautiful body, Sweet, And shone through its white and dainty mould; So you passed away from world's toil and heat To the glory that gathered you in its fold.
And I? Will my soul when it is free Discover the print of your spirit feet, And follow and find? O ecstacy, To come where you are, my Sweet, my Sweet!
Drop down along your shimmering way The golden dust of your shining wings, And haste not too much, but pause and stay While my soul essays its journeyings,
​For, dearest Dear, you must not forget, Because you're in heaven, and I on earth, The sweet love bond that binds us yet, And what to me is its meaning and worth:
It means that no matter where you may be— But I know where you are there must be bliss— To no other heaven can my spirit flee, Beautiful Soul, but only to this.
And perhaps were it not that you are there, For me to desire, and seek, and gain, O my Sweet, my Sweet, I should fail to dare The heights you would help me to attain.
Leave me, along the wondrous way, Some token my soul may understand; From your lambent vesture part a ray, Or loosen within your shining hand
Some radiant blossoms to fall along Your ariel path, like stars new born; Tune the motionless ether to a song; Or breathe through it fragrance like the morn:
But O, Soul Beautiful, on your way In and out 'mong the spheres of light, Be sure that I am not left to stray, When to seek you, and find you I take my flight.
​I'll come as a perfume, a color, a thought, And touch you with fingers more light than a look, 'Till you tremble and thrill, and I know you have caught The remembrance of earth, and the love you forsook.
I will surely follow, through doubt and fear, To sit at your feet in your bowers of bliss; Beautiful Soul, my dearest Dear, Fly not too far, lest the way I miss.
For the universe is long and wide, And your elements so etherial fine, If by any chance I should pass aside. My heaven would be lost in seeking thine.
# Poems (Victor)/Autumn in the Hills

Previously published as "Polk County Hills"
AUTUMN IN THE HILLS.
November came that day, And all the air was gray With delicate mists, blown down From hilltops by the south wind's balmy breath; And all the oaks were brown As Egypt's kings in death. The maple's crown of gold Laid tarnished on the wold; The alder, and the ash, the aspen and the willow, Wore tattered suits of yellow.
The soft October rains Had left some scarlet stains Of color on the landscape's neutral ground; Those fine ephemeral things, The winged notes of sound, That sing the "Harvest Home" Of ripe Autumn in the gloam Of the deep and bosky woods, in the field and by the river, Sang that day their best endeavor.
I said: "In what sweet place Shall we meet, face to face, Her loveliest self to see— Meet Nature, at her sad autumnal rites, And learn the mystery Of her unnamed delights?"
​Then you said: "Let us go Where the late violets blow In hollows of the hills, under dead oak leaves hiding;— We'll find she's there abiding."
Do we recall that day? Has its grace passed away— Its tenderest, dream-like tone, Like one of Turner's landscapes limned on air— Has its fine perfume flown And left the memory bare? Not so; its charm is still Over wood, vale and hill— The ferny odor sweet, the humming insect chorus, The spirit that before us
Enticed us with delights To the blue, breezy heights. O, beautiful hills that stand Serene 'twixt earth and heaven, with the grace Of both to make you grand,— Your loveliness leaves place For nothing fairer, fair, And complete beyond compare, O, lovely purple hills! O, first day of November, Be sure that I remember.
Salem. Or., 1869.
When you said, "Let us go Where the late violets blow Under dead oak leaves hiding."
# Poems (Victor)/Autumnalia

AUTUMNALIA.
The crimson color lays As bright as beauty's blush along the West, And a warm golden haze, Promising sheafs of ripe autumnal days To crown the old year's crest, Hangs in mid air, a half-pellucid maze, Through which the sun at set, Grown round and rosy, looks with Bacchian blush, For an old wine-god meet, Whose brows are dripping with the grape-blood sweet, As if his southern flush Rejoiced him, in his northern-zoned retreat.
The amber-colored air Musical is with hum of tiny things Held idly struggling there, As if the golden mists entangled were About the viewless wings, That beat out music on their gilded snare.
If but a leaf, all gay With Autumn's gorgeous coloring, doth fall, Along its fluttering way A shrill alarum wakes a sharp dismay, And, answering to the call, The insect chorus swells and dies away
​With a fine piping noise, As if some younger singing motes cried out, As do mischievous boys, Startling their playmates with a pained voice, Or sudden thrilling shout, Followed by laughter, full of little joys.
Perchance a lurking breeze Springs, just awakened to its wayward play, Tossing the sober trees Into a frolic maze of ecstacies, And snatching at the gay Banners of Autumn, strews them where it please.
The sunset colors glow A second time in flame from out wood, As bright and warm as though The vanished clouds had fallen, and lodged below Among the treetops, hued With all the colors of heaven's signal-bow.
The fitful breezes die Into a gentle whisper, and then sleep; And sweetly, mournfully, Starting to sight, in the transparent sky, Lone in the upper deep, Sad Hesper pours its beams upon the eye; And for one little hour,
​Holds audience with the lesser lights of heaven, Then to its western bower Descends in sudden darkness, as the flower That at the fall of even Shuts its bright eye, and yields to slumber's power.
Soon, with a dusky face, Pensive and proud as an East Indian queen, And with a solemn grace, The moon ascends, and takes her royal place In the fair evening scene, While all the reverential stars, apace, Take up their march through the cool fields of space, And wed in the sweet day with night serene.
Ann Arbor, Mich., 1852.
# Poems (Victor)/He and She

HE AND SHE.
Under the pines sat a young man and maiden: "Love," said he, "life is sweet, think'st thou not so?" Sweet were her eyes, full of pictures of Aidenn— "Life," said she, "love is sweet; no more I know."
Into the wide world the maid and her lover Wandered by pathways that sundered them far; From pine groves to palm groves he flitted, a rover, She tended his roses, and watched for his star.
Oft he said softly, while melting eyes glistened, "Sweet is my life, love, with you ever near"; Morning and evening she waited and listened For a voice and a footstep that never came near.
Fainting at last on her threshold she found him; "Life is but ashes and bitter," he sighed. She, with her tender arms folded about him, Whispered, "But love is still sweet"—and so died.
Sprague River, Or., 1873.
# Poems (Victor)/Lines Written in an Album

LINES WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM.
The highest use of happy love is this, To make us loving to the loveless ones; Willing, indeed, to halve our meed of bliss; If our sweet plenty others' want atones; Of love's abundance may God give thee store, To spend in love's sweet charities, Lenore.
# Poems (Victor)/Childhood

CHILDHOOD.
# Poems (Victor)/By the Sea

BY THE SEA.
Blue is the mist on the mountains, White is the fog on the sea, Ruby and gold is the sunset— And Bertha is waiting for me.
Down on the lonesome sand beach, Her eyes as blue as the mist, Her brow as white as the sea-fog— Bertha, whose lips I have kissed.
Bertha, whose lips are like rubies, Whose hair is like coiled gold, Whose sweet, rare smile is tenderer Than any legend of old.
One morn, one noon, one sunset, Must pass before we meet; O wind and sail bear steady on, And bring me to her feet.
The morn rose pale and sullen, The noon was still and dun; Across the storm at sunset, Came the boom of a signal-gun.
​Who treads the lonesome sand beach, With wet, disordered hair, With garments tangled with seaweed, And cheeks more pale than fair?
O blue-eyed, white-browed maiden, He will keep love's tryst no more; His ship sailed safely into port— But on the heavenward shore.
Santa Cruz., Cal., 1864.
# Poems (Victor)/Ah Me

AH ME!
# Poems (Victor)/Edith

EDITH.
"A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden to the eye," Sang Wordsworth of that English girl Who pleased the poet's eye. I sing of one, a garden rose, Grown in a freer air As modest as the violet And many times more fair.
# Poems of Patriotism/A Patriotic Wish

A Patriotic Wish
I’d like to be the sort of man the flag could boast about;
I’d like to be the sort of man it cannot live without; I’d like to be the type of man That really is American: The head-erect and shoulders-square, Clean-minded fellow, just and fair, That all men picture when they see The glorious banner of the free.
I’d like to be the sort of man the flag now typifies, The kind of man we really want the flag to symbolize; The loyal brother to a trust, The big, unselfish soul and just, The friend of every man oppressed, The strong support of all that’s best— The sturdy chap the banner’s meant, Where’er it flies, to represent.
I’d like to be the sort of man the flag’s supposed to mean,
The man that all in fancy see, wherever it is seen; The chap that’s ready for a fight Whenever there’s a wrong to right, The friend in every time of need, The doer of the daring deed, The clean and generous-handed man That is a real American.
# Poems of Patriotism/A Prayer, 1942

A Prayer, 1942
Oh, make us worthy, God, we pray, To do Thy service Here today; Endow us with The strength we need For every Sacrificial deed!
# Poems of Patriotism/Envy

Envy
It’s a bigger thing you’re doing than the most of us have done; We have lived the days of pleasure; now the gray days have begun, And upon your manly shoulders fall the burdens of the strife; Yours must be the sacrifices of the trial time of life. Oh, I don’t know how to say it, but I’ll never think of you Without wishing I were sharing in the work you have to do.
I have never known a moment that was fraught with real care, Save the hurts and griefs of sorrow that all mortals have to bear; With the gay and smiling marchers I have tramped on pleasant ways, And have paid with feeble service for the gladness of my days. But to you has come a summons, yours are days of sacrifice, And for all life has of sweetness you must pay a bitter price.
Men have fought and died before me, men must fight and die today, I have merely taken pleasures for which others had to pay; I have been a man of laughter, there’s no path my feet have made, I have merely been a marcher in life’s gaudy dress parade. But you wear the garb of service, you have splendid deeds to do, You shall sound the depths of manhood and, my boy, I envy you.
# Poems of Patriotism/Follow the Flag

Follow the Flag
Aye, we will follow the flag Wherever she goes, Into the tropic sun, Into the northern snows; Go where the guns ring out Scattering steel and lead, Painting the hills with blood, Strewing the fields with dead. But in each heart must be, And back of each bitter gun, Love for the best in life After the fighting’s done.
Aye, we will follow the flag Into benighted lands, Brave in the faith for which, Proudly, our banner stands. Life for her life we’ll pay, Blood for her blood we’ll give, Fighting, but not to kill, Save that the best shall live. But, when the cannon’s roar Dies in a hymn of peace,
Justice and truth must reign, Power of the brute must cease.
Aye, we will follow the flag, Gladly her work we’ll do, Banishing wrongs of old, Founding the truth anew. What though our guns must speak, What though brave men must die, Ages of truth to come All this shall justify. Men in the charms of peace, Basking in Freedom’s sun, Some day shall bless our flag After our work is done.
Aye, we will follow the flag Wherever she goes, Into the tropic sun, Into the northern snows. Fearlessly, on we’ll go Into the cruel strife, Gladly the few shall die, Winning for many, life.
Tyranny’s wrongs must cease, Brutes must no longer brag, This is our work on earth, So we will follow the flag.
# Poems of Patriotism/From Laughter to Labor

From Laughter to Labor
We have wandered afar in our hunting for pleasure, We have scorned the soul’s duty to gather up treasure; We have lived for our laughter and toiled for our winning And paid little heed to the soul’s simple sinning. But light were the burdens that freighted us then, God and Country, today let us prove we are men!
We have idled and dreamed in life’s merriest places, The years have writ little of care in our faces; We have brought up our children, expectant of gladness, And little we’ve taught them of life and its sadness. For distant and dim seemed the forces of wrong, God and Country, today let us prove we are strong!
We have had our glad years, now the sad years are coming, We have danced to gay tunes, now we march to war’s drumming. We have laughed and have loved as we pleasantly toiled, And now we must show that our souls are unspoiled. We must work that our flag shall in honor still wave, God and Country, today let us prove we are brave!
# Poems of Patriotism/A Plea

A Plea
God grant me these: the strength to do Some needed service here; The wisdom to be brave and true; The gift of vision clear, That in each task that comes to me Some purpose I may plainly see.
God teach me to believe that I Am stationed at a post, Although the humblest ’neath the sky, Where I am needed most, And that, at last, if I do well, My humble services will tell.
God grant me faith to stand on guard, Uncheered, unspoke, alone, And see behind such duty hard My service to the throne. Whate’er my task, be this my creed: I am on earth to fill a need.
# Poems of Patriotism/Do Your All

Do Your All
“Do your bit!” How cheap and trite Seems that phrase in such a fight! “Do your bit!” That cry recall, Change it now to “Do your all!” Do your all, and then do more; Do what you’re best fitted for; Do your utmost, do and give, You have but one life to live.
Do your finest, do your best, Don’t let up and stop to rest. Don’t sit back and idly say: “I did something yesterday.” Come on! Here’s another hour, Give it all you have of power. Here’s another day that needs Everybody’s share of deeds.
“Do your bit!” of course, but then Do it time and time again; Giving, doing, all should be Up to full capacity. Now’s no time to pick and choose,
We’ve a war we must not lose. Be your duty great or small, Do it well and do it all.
Do by careful, patient living, Do by cheerful, open giving; Do by serving day by day At whatever post you may; Do by sacrificing pleasure, Do by scorning hours of leisure. Now to God and country give Every minute that you live.
# Poems of Patriotism/Constant Beauty

Constant Beauty
It’s good to have the trees again, the singing of the breeze again, It’s good to see the lilacs bloom as lovely as of old. It’s good that we can feel again the touch of beauties real again, For hearts and minds, of sorrow now, have all that they can hold.
The roses haven’t changed a bit, nor have the peonies stranged a bit, They bud and bloom the way they did before the war began. The world is upside down today, there’s much to make us frown today And gloom and sadness everywhere beset the path of man.
But now the lilacs bloom again and give us their perfume again And now the roses smile at us and nod along the way;
And it is good to see again the blossoms on each tree again And feel that nature hasn’t changed the way we have today.
Oh, we have changed from what we were, we’re not the carefree lot we were, Our hearts are filled with sorrow now and grave concern and pain, But it is good to see once more the budding lilac tree once more, And find the constant roses here to comfort us again.