The Poet

The following is one of Tennyson’s earliest poems. He was, perhaps, the best loved English poet of the Victorian age.

 

by Alfred Lord Tennyson

(Aug 6, 1809- Oct 6, 1892)

 

The poet in a golden clime was born,

With golden stars above;

Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,

The love of love.

 

He saw thro’ life and death, thro’ good and ill,

He saw thro’ his own soul.

The marvel of the everlasting will,

An open scroll,

 

Before him lay; with echoing feet he threaded

The secretest walks of fame;

The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed

And winged with flame,

 

Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue,

And of so fierce a flight,

From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung,

Filling with light

 

And vagrant melodies the winds which  bore

Them earthward till they lit;

Then, like the arrow seeds of the field flower,

The fruitful wit

 

Cleaving took root, and springing forth anew

Where’er they fell, behold,

Like to the mother plant in semblance grew

A flower all gold,

 

And bravely furnished all abroad to fling

The winged shafts of truth,

To throng with stately blooms the breathing spring

Of Hope and Youth.

 

So many minds did gird their orbs with beams,

Tho’ one did fling the fire;

Heaven flowered upon the soul in many dreams

Of high desire.

 

The truth was multiplied on truth, the world

Like one great garden showed,

And thro’ the wreaths of floating dark upcurled,

Rare sunrise flowed.

 

And Freedom reared in that august sunrise

Her beautiful bold brow,

When rites and forms before his burning eyes

Melted like snow.

 

There was no blood upon her maiden robes

Sunned by those orient skies;

But round about the circles of the globes

Of her keen eyes

 

And in her raiment’s hem was traced in flame

Wisdom, a name to shake

All evil dreams of power- a sacred name.

And when she spake,

 

Her words did gather thunder as they ran,

And as the lightning to the thunder

Which follows it, riving the spirit of man,

Making earth wonder,

 

So was their meaning to her words. No sword

Of wrath her right arm whirled,

But one poor poet’s scroll, and with his word

She shook the world.

 

 The Castle Lady, with kisses enough to rock your world!