Choric Song of the Lotos-Eaters
Tennyson, Alfred, Lord (1809-1892)

  There is sweet music here that softer falls
  Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
  Or night-dews on still waters between walls
  Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
  Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
  Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes;
  Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
  Here are cool mosses deep,
  And through the moss the ivies creep,
  And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
  And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

  Why are we weighed upon with heaviness,
  And utterly consumed with sharp distress,
  While all things else have rest from weariness?
  All things have rest:  why should we toil 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 slumber'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 wooed from out the bud
  With winds upon the branch, and there
  Grows green and broad, and takes no care,
  Sun-steeped at noon, and in the moon
  Nightly dew-fed;  and turning yellow
  Falls, and floats adown the air.
  Lo!  sweetened with the summer light,
  The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,
  Drops in a silent autumn night.
  All its allotted length of days,
  The flower ripens in its place,
  Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,
  Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.

  Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
  Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea.
  Death is the end of life;  ah, why
  Should life all labour be?
  Let us alone.  Time driveth onward 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 ripen 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 amber light,
  Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;
  To hear each other's whispered speech;
  Eating the Lotos day by day,
  To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
  And tender curving lines of creamy spray;
  To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
  To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;
  To muse and brood and live again in memory,
  With those old faces of our infancy
  Heaped over with a mound of grass,
  Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!

  Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,
  And dear the last embraces of our wives
  And their warm tears:  but all hath suffered change:
  For surely now our household hearths 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 isle?
  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 agd breath,
  Sore task to hearts worn out by 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 lull us, blowing lowly)
  With half-dropt eyelid 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 through the thick-twind vine--
  To watch the emerald-coloured water falling
  Through many a woven acanthus-wreath divine!
  Only to hear and see the far-off sparking brine,
  Only to hear were sweet, stretched out beneath the pine.

  The Lotos blooms below the barren peak:
  The Lotos blows by every winding creek:
  All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone:
  Through every hollow cave and alley lone
  Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown.
  We have had enough of action, and of motion we,
  Rolled to starboard, rolled to larboard, when the surge was seething free,
  Where the wallowing monster spouted 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 reclined
  On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.
  For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled
  Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curled
  Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world:
  Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands,
  Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery 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 lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,
  Like a tale of little meaning though the words are strong;
  Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave 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 whispered--down in hell
  Suffer endless anguish, 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 oar;
  Oh rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.

Immortal Poems of the English Language (Williams)