Song of the Lotos-Eaters

    Than petals¹ from blown roses on the grass

    Or night-dews on still waters between walls

    Of shadowy granite² in a gleaming pass；

    Music that gentlier on the spirit lies

    Than tired eyelids³ upon tired eyes；

    Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.

    Here are cool mosses⁵ deep

    And thro' the moss⁴ the ivies⁶ creep

    And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep

    And from the craggy ledge⁷ the poppy hangs in sleep.

    Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness

    And utterly⁸ consumed with sharp distress⁹

    While all things else have rest from weariness？

    All things have rest： why should we toil¹⁰ alone

    We only toil who are the first of things

    And make perpetual moan

    Still from one sorrow to another thrown：

    Nor ever fold our wings

    And cease from wanderings

    Nor steep our brows in slumber¹²'s holy balm；

    Nor harken what the inner spirit sings

    'There is no joy but calm！'—

    Why should we only toil the roof and crown of things？

    Lo！ in the middle of the wood

    The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud

    With winds upon the branch and there

    Grows green and broad and takes no care

    Sun-steep'd at noon and in the moon

    Nightly dew-fed； and turning blue

    Falls and floats adown the air.

    Lo！ sweeten'd with the summer light

    The full-juiced apple waxing over-mellow

    Drops in a silent autumn night.

    All its allotted¹⁴ length of days

    The flower ripens¹⁶ in its place

    Ripens and fades and falls and hath no toil

    Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.

    Hateful is the dark-blue sky

    Vaulted¹⁷ o'er the dark-blue sea.

    Death is the end of life； ah why

    Should life all labour be？

    Let us alone. Time driveth onward¹⁸ fast

    And in a little while our lips are dumb.

    Let us alone. What is it that will last？

    All things are taken from us and become

    Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past.

    Let us alone. What pleasure can we have

    To war with evil？ Is there any peace

    In ever climbing up the climbing wave？

    All things have rest and ripen¹⁵ toward the grave

    In silence； ripen fall and cease：

    Give us long rest or death dark death or dreamful ease.

    How sweet it were hearing the downward stream

    With half-shut eyes ever to seem

    Falling asleep in a half-dream！

    To dream and dream like yonder amber¹⁹ light

    Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height；

    To hear each other's whisper'd speech；

    Eating the Lotos day by day

    To watch the crisping ripples²⁰ on the beach

    And tender curving lines of creamy spray；

    To lend our hearts and spirits wholly

    To the influence of mild-minded melancholy²¹；

    To muse²² and brood and live again in memory

    With those old faces of our infancy²³

    Heap'd over with a mound²⁴ of grass

    Two handfuls of #CCCCFF dust shut in an urn¹³ of brass²⁵！

    Dear is the memory of our wedded²⁶ lives

    And dear the last embraces of our wives

    And their warm tears： but all hath suffer'd change；

    For surely now our household hearts are cold：

    Our sons inherit us： our looks are strange：

    And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.

    Or else the island princes over-bold

    Have eat our substance and the minstrel sings

    Before them of the ten years' war in Troy

    And our great deeds as half-forgotten things.

    Is there confusion in the little isle²⁷？

    Let what is broken so remain.

    The Gods are hard to reconcile：

    'Tis hard to settle order once again.

    There is confusion worse than death

    Trouble on trouble pain on pain

    Long labour unto agèd breath

    Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars

    And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.

    But propt on beds of amaranth and moly

    How sweet （while warm airs lull²⁸ us blowing lowly）

    With half-dropt eyelids still

    Beneath a heaven dark and holy

    To watch the long bright river drawing slowly

    His waters from the purple hill—

    To hear the dewy echoes calling

    From cave to cave thro' the thick-twinèd vine—

    To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling

    Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine！

    Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine

    Only to hear were sweet stretch'd out beneath the pine.

    The Lotos blooms below the barren peak：

    The Lotos blows by every winding²⁹ creek³⁰：

    All day the wind breathes low with mellower³¹ tone：

    Thro' every hollow cave and alley³² lone¹¹

    Round and round the spicy³³ downs the blue Lotos-dust is blown.

    We have had enough of action and of motion we

    Roll'd to starboard roll'd to larboard when the surge was seething³⁵ free

    Where the wallowing monster spouted³⁶ his foam-fountains in the sea.

    Let us swear an oath and keep it with an equal mind

    In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie relined

    On the hills like Gods together careless of mankind.

    For they lie beside their nectar and the bolts are hurl'd

    Far below them in the valleys and the clouds are lightly curl'd

    Round their golden houses girdled with the gleaming world：

    Where the smile in secret looking over wasted lands

    Blight³⁷ and famine plague and earthquake roaring deeps and fiery³⁸ sands

    Clanging fights and flaming towns and sinking ships and praying hands.

    But they smile they find a music centred in a doleful song

    Steaming up a lamentation³⁹ and an ancient tale of wrong

    Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong；

    Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave⁴⁰ the soil

    Sow the seed and reap the harvest with enduring toil

    Storing yearly little dues of wheat and wine and oil；

    Till they perish and they suffer—some 'tis whisper'd—down in hell

    Suffer endless anguish⁴¹ others in Elysian valleys dwell

    Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.

    Surely surely slumber is more sweet than toil the shore

    Than labour in the deep mid-ocean wind and wave and oar³⁴；

    O rest ye brother mariners⁴² we will not wander more.