It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: 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. LORD TENNYSON. SIR GALAHAD Sir Galahad, the best and holiest knight of King Arthur's court, was cheered in his wars and wanderings by heavenly visions. My good blade carves the casques of men, The shattering trumpet shrilleth high, They reel, they roll in clanging lists, 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, When on my goodly charger borne The cock crows ere the Christmas morn, And, ringing, springs from brand and mail; I leave the plain, I climb the height; A maiden knight-to me is given I yearn to breathe the airs of heaven I muse on joy that will not cease, Whose odours haunt my dreams; And, stricken by an angel's hand, The clouds are broken in the sky, Swells up, and shakes and falls. LORD TENNYSON. ST. AGNES' EVE This is supposed to be spoken by a nun on a midwinter night-the Feast of St. Agnes, an early Christian girl-martyr in Rome, being in winter. Nuns are spiritually the "brides" of Our Lord, Who is the Bridegroom" of the poem. DEEP on the convent-roof the snows My breath to heaven like vapour goes: The shadows of the convent-towers Still creeping with the creeping hours Make Thou my spirit pure and clear Or this first snowdrop of the year As these white robes are soil'd and dark, To yonder shining ground; As this pale taper's earthly spark, To yonder argent round; So shows my soul before the Lamb, So in mine earthly house I am, Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, He lifts me to the golden doors; And deepens on and up! the gates For me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, One sabbath deep and wide- LORD TENNYSON. K S.P. THE DYING SWAN It was thought in old days that the swan-a very silent bird-sang one only song just before it died. Tennyson makes of that strange old belief pure poetry-extra poetry, as it were, wild poetryespecially in the last five lines. THE plain was grassy, wild and bare, An under-roof of doleful gray. It was the middle of the day. Ever the dreary wind went on, And took the reed-tops as it went. Some blue peaks in the distance rose, One willow over the river wept, And shook the wave as the wind did sigh; And far through the marish green and still Shot over with purple, and green and yellow. The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul |