THE LADY OF SHALOTT BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON -- COMPLETE

This has been is one of my favorite poems since I first encountered it in an English Literature class at Antioch College around 1955.  Our final exam asked us to discuss the line spoken by this noble woman confined to a tower: "I am half sick of shadows said the Lady of Shalott."  

Indeed, as I lie here -- confined by the COVID epidemic and my Prolia-fractured body -- that is exactly how I feel!

Read the entire poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, at: 

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45359/the-lady-of-shalott-1832

or here:  The Lady of Shalott (1832)  

BY ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

Part I 

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; 

The yellow-leaved waterlily 

The green-sheathed daffodilly 

Tremble in the water chilly 

       Round about Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens shiver. 

The sunbeam showers break and quiver 

In the stream that runneth 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. 

Underneath the bearded barley, 

The reaper, reaping late and early, 

Hears her ever chanting cheerly, 

Like an angel, singing clearly, 

       O'er the stream of Camelot. 

Piling the sheaves in furrows airy, 

Beneath the moon, the reaper weary 

Listening whispers, ' 'Tis the fairy, 

       Lady of Shalott.' 

The little isle is all inrail'd 

With a rose-fence, and overtrail'd 

With roses: by the marge unhail'd 

The shallop flitteth silken sail'd, 

       Skimming down to Camelot. 

A pearl garland winds her head: 

She leaneth on a velvet bed, 

Full royally apparelled, 

       The Lady of Shalott. 

Part II 

No time hath she to sport and play: 

A charmed web she weaves alway. 

A curse is on her, if she stay 

Her weaving, either night or day, 

       To look down to Camelot. 

She knows not what the curse may be; 

Therefore she weaveth steadily, 

Therefore no other care hath she, 

       The Lady of Shalott. 

She lives with little joy or fear. 

Over the water, running near, 

The sheepbell tinkles in her ear. 

Before her hangs a mirror clear, 

       Reflecting tower'd Camelot. 

And as the mazy web she whirls, 

She sees 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, came from Camelot: 

Or when the moon was overhead 

Came two young lovers lately wed; 

'I am half sick of shadows,' said 

       The Lady of Shalott. 

Part III 

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, 

He rode between the barley-sheaves, 

The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, 

And flam'd upon the brazen greaves 

       Of bold Sir Lancelot. 

A red-cross 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 from 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 from Camelot. 

As often thro' the purple night, 

Below the starry clusters bright, 

Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 

       Moves over green 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 from Camelot. 

From the bank and from the river 

He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 

'Tirra lirra, tirra lirra:' 

       Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom 

She made three paces thro' the room 

She saw the water-flower 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. 

Part IV 

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; 

Outside the isle a shallow boat 

Beneath a willow lay afloat, 

Below the carven stern she wrote, 

       The Lady of Shalott. 

A cloudwhite crown of pearl she dight, 

All raimented in snowy white 

That loosely flew (her zone in sight 

Clasp'd with one blinding diamond bright) 

       Her wide eyes fix'd on Camelot, 

Though the squally east-wind keenly 

Blew, with folded arms serenely 

By the water stood the queenly 

       Lady of Shalott. 

With a steady stony glance— 

Like some bold seer in a trance, 

Beholding all his own mischance, 

Mute, with a glassy countenance— 

       She look'd down to Camelot. 

It was the closing of the day: 

She loos'd the chain, and down she lay; 

The broad stream bore her far away, 

       The Lady of Shalott. 

As when to sailors while they roam, 

By creeks and outfalls far from home, 

Rising and dropping with the foam, 

From dying swans wild warblings come, 

       Blown shoreward; so to Camelot 

Still as the boathead wound along 

The willowy hills and fields among, 

They heard her chanting her deathsong, 

       The Lady of Shalott. 

A longdrawn carol, mournful, holy, 

She chanted loudly, chanted lowly, 

Till her eyes were darken'd wholly, 

And her smooth face sharpen'd slowly, 

       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 pale, pale corpse she floated by, 

Deadcold, between the houses high, 

       Dead into tower'd Camelot. 

Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 

To the planked wharfage came: 

Below the stern they read her name, 

       The Lady of Shalott. 

They cross'd themselves, their stars they blest, 

Knight, minstrel, abbot, squire, and guest. 

There lay a parchment on her breast, 

That puzzled more than all the rest, 

       The wellfed wits at Camelot. 

'The web was woven curiously, 

The charm is broken utterly, 

Draw near and fear not,—this is I, 

       The Lady of Shalott.'

               ~~~~~~~~~~~~

THE DEATH OF KING ARTHUR

 From The Death of King Arthur, as recounted by 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson in Idylls of the King 

       And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge: 

"The old order changeth, yielding place to new, 

And God fulfils himself in many ways, 

Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 

Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? 

I have lived my life, and that which I have done 

May He within himself make pure! but thou, 

If thou shouldst never see my face again, 

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer 

Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice 

Rise like a fountain for me night and day. 

For what are men better than sheep or goats 

That nourish a blind life within the brain, 

If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer 

Both for themselves and those who call them friend? 

For so the whole round earth is every way 

Bound by gold chains about the feet of God. 

But now farewell. I am going a long way 

With these thou seëst—if indeed I go 

(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)— 

To the island-valley of Avilion; 

Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow, 

Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies 

Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns 

And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, 

Where I will heal me of my grievous wound." 

This epic work recites the life and death of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. The section here recounts the death of King Arthur, who reassures his knights standing about in sadness.  

Read this work at: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45370/morte-darthur

And more at: 

http://www.legendofkingarthur.co.uk/king-arthur-death.htm

                

                         

Note: I have also posted more of this poem at:

http://joansgoodstuff.blogspot.com/2022/03/from-tennysons-poem-death-of-arthur.html

                                                           ###

HARBSTLID -- Autumn Song by Beyle Schaechter-Gottesman

From the Yiddish - that best describes this— 

Boyle Schaechter-Gottesman. Harbstlid (Song of Autumn)

http://www.jewishfolksongs.com/en/harbstlid

See Lecture: "The Seasons"

For information about Schaechter-Gottesman, see the webpage by Jane Peppler entitled "Beyle Schaechter-Gottesman: poet, composer, living legend"

 

Ze, s'iz harbst -- See, it's fall --

Un vos gegrint fargelt, farvyanet. And all that greened has yellowed, withered.

Ze, s'iz harbst -- See, it's fall --

Un vos geblit fargeyt ... And all that bloomed is gone ...

Un ikh, vos kh'hob gemeyn s'iz shtendik friling And I who thought that spring would last forever,

Un kh'halt in hant And in my hand I hold

Di gantse eybikeyt. All Eternity.

Oho, falndike bleter! Oho, falling leaves!

Oho, fliendike teg! Oho, flying days!

Oho, vi vel ikh itster blondzhen, Oho, how will I wander now,

Ven s'ligt gedikhter nepl af mayn veg.. When thick fog settles on my way ...

Kraken feygl, Cawing birds

Zogn troyerik: "Zay gezunt dir!" Sadly say: "Good-bye!"

Krekhtst in fentster Making noise at the window

Un se klogt der vint: And the wind moans and wails:

"O, vi volt ikh itst avek fun danen "I wish that I could get away from here

Tsun a breg To a shore

Vu nokh der friling grint ..." Where there is still green spring ..."

—- Oho, falndike bletter, …etc Oho, falling leaves...

Flit der regn -- Driving rain (lit. rain flies)

A galop af vildn ferdl. Gallops on a wild horse,

Roymt mir ayn a sod: er hot mikh holt. Whispers secret love into my ear:

"Tsu vos zhe darfstu vartn afn friling, "Why do you need to wait for springtime

Az s'hot der osyen fule koyshns gold." When autumn offers baskets full of gold?

Oho, falndike letter, ... etc. Oho, falling leaves ...etc.

Source: Schaechter-Gottesman, Beyle, Zumerteg: Tsvantsik zinglider. Yiddish League, 1990

ABRAHAM LINCOLN - THE GETTYSBURG ADDRESS

Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address by Abraham Lincoln

President Abraham Lincoln gave his most famous speech, the Gettysburg Address, on November 19, 1863. At that time, the U.S. was in the middle of the Civil War. Lincoln gave the speech at the dedication of a cemetery for the soldiers who had died during the Battle of Gettysburg.

------------------------

Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth, upon this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.

Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation, so conceived, and so dedicated, can long endure. We are met here on a great battle field of that war. We are now have come to dedicate a portion of it as the a final resting place of for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.

But in a larger sense we can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember, what we say here, but can never forget what they did here. It is for us, the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they have, thus far, so nobly carried on. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to the that cause for which they here gave gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain; that this nation shall have a new birth of freedom; and that this government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.

                                           ###

John Milton, On His Blindness

As I cope with some serious eye issues related to Prolia, a drug for osteoporosis, this poem becomes even more meaningful to me. 

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one talent which is death to hide
Lodg'd with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts: who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed
And post o'er land and ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait." 

John Milton (written in 1655)

Rabbi Ben Ezra by Robert Browning

Robert Browning: Rabbi Ben Ezra

Rabbi Ben Ezra by Robert Browning | Poetry Foundation 

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/43775/rabbi-ben-ezra

Grow old along with me!

The best is yet to be,

The last of life, for which the first was made:

Our times are in His hand

Who saith "A whole I planned,

Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!''

Not that, amassing flowers,

Youth sighed "Which rose make ours,

Which lily leave and then as best recall?"

Not that, admiring stars,

It yearned "Nor Jove, nor Mars;

Mine be some figured flame which blends, transcends them all!"

Not for such hopes and fears

Annulling youth's brief years,

Do I remonstrate: folly wide the mark!

Rather I prize the doubt

Low kinds exist without,

Finished and finite clods, untroubled by a spark.

Poor vaunt of life indeed,

Were man but formed to feed

On joy, to solely seek and find and feast:

Such feasting ended, then

As sure an end to men;

Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?

Rejoice we are allied

To That which doth provide

And not partake, effect and not receive!

A spark disturbs our clod;

Nearer we hold of God

Who gives, than of His tribes that take, I must believe.

Then, welcome each rebuff

That turns earth's smoothness rough,

Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand but go!

Be our joys three-parts pain!

Strive, and hold cheap the strain;

Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!

For thence,—a paradox

Which comforts while it mocks,—

Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail:

What I aspired to be,

And was not, comforts me:

A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale.

What is he but a brute

Whose flesh has soul to suit,

Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play?

To man, propose this test—

Thy body at its best,

How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?

Yet gifts should prove their use:

I own the Past profuse

Of power each side, perfection every turn:

Eyes, ears took in their dole,

Brain treasured up the whole;

Should not the heart beat once "How good to live and learn?"

Not once beat "Praise be Thine!

I see the whole design,

who saw power, see now love perfect too:

Perfect I call Thy plan:

Thanks that I was a man!

Maker, remake, complete,—I trust what Thou shalt do!"

For pleasant is this flesh;

Our soul, in its rose-mesh

Pulled ever to the earth, still yearns for rest;

Would we some prize might hold

To match those manifold

Possessions of the brute,—gain most, as we did best!

Let us not always say,

"Spite of this flesh to-day

I strove, made head, gained ground upon the whole!"

As the bird wings and sings,

Let us cry "All good things

Are ours, nor soul helps flesh more, now, than flesh helps soul!"

Therefore I summon age

To grant youth's heritage,

Life's struggle having so far reached its term:

Thence shall I pass, approved

A man, for aye removed

From the developed brute; a god though in the germ.

And I shall thereupon

Take rest, ere I be gone

Once more on my adventure brave and new:

Fearless and unperplexed,

When I wage battle next,

What weapons to select, what armour to indue.

Youth ended, I shall try

My gain or loss thereby;

Leave the fire ashes, what survives is gold:

And I shall weigh the same,

Give life its praise or blame:

Young, all lay in dispute; I shall know, being old.

For note, when evening shuts,

A certain moment cuts

The deed off, calls the glory from the grey:

A whisper from the west

Shoots—"Add this to the rest,

Take it and try its worth: here dies another day."

So, still within this life,

Though lifted o'er its strife,

Let me discern, compare, pronounce at last,

This rage was right i' the main,

That acquiescence vain:

The Future I may face now I have proved the Past."

For more is not reserved

To man, with soul just nerved

To act to-morrow what he learns to-day:

Here, work enough to watch

The Master work, and catch

Hints of the proper craft, tricks of the tool's true play.

As it was better, youth

Should strive, through acts uncouth,

Toward making, than repose on aught found made:

So, better, age, exempt

From strife, should know, than tempt

Further. Thou waitedst age: wait death nor be afraid!

Enough now, if the Right

And Good and Infinite

Be named here, as thou callest thy hand thine own

With knowledge absolute,

Subject to no dispute

From fools that crowded youth, nor let thee feel alone.

Be there, for once and all,

Severed great minds from small,

Announced to each his station in the Past!

Was I, the world arraigned,

Were they, my soul disdained,

Right? Let age speak the truth and give us peace at last!

Now, who shall arbitrate?

Ten men love what I hate,

Shun what I follow, slight what I receive;

Ten, who in ears and eyes

Match me: we all surmise,

They this thing, and I that: whom shall my soul believe?

Not on the vulgar mass

Called "work," must sentence pass,

Things done, that took the eye and had the price;

O'er which, from level stand,

The low world laid its hand,

Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice:

But all, the world's coarse thumb

And finger failed to plumb,

So passed in making up the main account;

All instincts immature,

All purposes unsure,

That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount:

Thoughts hardly to be packed

Into a narrow act,

Fancies that broke through language and escaped;

All I could never be,

All, men ignored in me,

This, I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.

Ay, note that Potter's wheel,

That metaphor! and feel

Why time spins fast, why passive lies our clay,—

Thou, to whom fools propound,

When the wine makes its round,

"Since life fleets, all is change; the Past gone, seize to-day!"

Fool! All that is, at all,

Lasts ever, past recall;

Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure:

What entered into thee,

That was, is, and shall be:

Time's wheel runs back or stops: Potter and clay endure.

He fixed thee mid this dance

Of plastic circumstance,

This Present, thou, forsooth, wouldst fain arrest:

Machinery just meant

To give thy soul its bent,

Try thee and turn thee forth, sufficiently impressed.

What though the earlier grooves,

Which ran the laughing loves

Around thy base, no longer pause and press?

What though, about thy rim,

Skull-things in order grim

Grow out, in graver mood, obey the sterner stress?

Look not thou down but up!

To uses of a cup,

The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal,

The new wine's foaming flow,

The Master's lips a-glow!

Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what need'st thou with earth's wheel?

But I need, now as then,

Thee, God, who mouldest men;

And since, not even while the whirl was worst,

Did I,—to the wheel of life

With shapes and colours rife,

Bound dizzily,—mistake my end, to slake Thy thirst:

So, take and use Thy work:

Amend what flaws may lurk,

What strain o' the stuff, what warpings past the aim!

My times be in Thy hand!

Perfect the cup as planned!

Let age approve of youth, and death complete the same!

-------

Notes on Robert Browning from 

https://www.newworldencyclopedia.org/entry/Robert_Browning

Robert Browning (May 7, 1812 – December 12, 1889) was an English poet and playwright who, along with Alfred Lord Tennyson is perhaps one of the most well-remembered poets of the Victorian era. Browning lived in a time of transition in British poetry; the great sweep of Romanticism had reached its end, and it would be some decades well after Browning's death before the new excitement of the modernwould burst onto the poetic scene. This period of interregnum in English literature would become dominated by poets attempting to transmute the wild energy of the Romantic age into new and tempered forms. Despite this reputation, much of the great advances and revolutions in poetic thinking that would sweep the world beginning in the twentieth century had their genesis in the Victorian era, and one of the greatest poets of this age was Browning.

A Leap of Faith

A LEAP OF FAITH

I was coming home
I was coming home to die
I was coming home to die in my own bed
Although buoyed by this hope
I could feel my strength ebbing
As I struggled against the tide of life
That had finally turned against me
Suddenly, the world erupted
Into turbulence and confusion
I had reached the last hurdle
I would now have to overcome
With all the power remaining
In my mortal being
I leapt free from earths’ pull
And soared through the air
I am McSalmon of the Salmonidae
I was home, I was home to die
I was home to die in my own bed

Michael Ashby, Sidmouth

Michael Ashby - thefuneralpoem.com

https://www.thefuneralpoem.com/9/michael-ashby-poems/michael-ashby-sidmouth/10/a-leap-of-faith-death-poetry-verses








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