Ulysses

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'
We are not now that strength which in old days
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.


--Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892), preeminent poet of the Victorian era. My friend Pam's favorite poem, and today she officially retires from teaching after 35 years of inspiring young minds.

Image-- A Roman mosaic of Ulysses (Odysseus).

A New Year's Poem

A New Year's Poem

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow;
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rimes
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

--Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892), Poet Laureate of Great Britain for much of Victoria's reign

In Memoriam (Ring out, wild bells)

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, 

   The flying cloud, the frosty light: 

   The year is dying in the night; 

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 

   Ring, happy bells, across the snow: 

   The year is going, let him go; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind 

   For those that here we see no more; 

   Ring out the feud of rich and poor, 

Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause, 

   And ancient forms of party strife; 

   Ring in the nobler modes of life, 

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, 

   The faithless coldness of the times; 

   Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes 

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood, 

   The civic slander and the spite; 

   Ring in the love of truth and right, 

Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease; 

   Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; 

   Ring out the thousand wars of old, 

Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free, 

   The larger heart, the kindlier hand; 

   Ring out the darkness of the land, 

Ring in the Christ that is to be.


-- Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892) British Romantic Poet and Poet Laureate

The Eagle

He clasps the crag with crooked hands; 
Close to the sun in lonely lands, 
Ringed with the azure world, he stands. 

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; 
He watches from his mountain walls, 
 And like a thunderbolt he falls.

--Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892) British poet, poet laureate of Great Britain during Queen Victoria's reign



Photo of a Golden Eagle in its habitat from the San Diego Zoo.

Break, break, break

Break, break, break,
     On thy cold gray stones, O sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
     The thoughts that arise in me.

O, well for the fisherman’s boy,
     That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
     That he sings in his boat on the bay!

And the stately ships go on
     To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
     And the sound of a voice that is still!

Break, break, break,
     At the foot of thy crags, O sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
     Will never come back to me.

--Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892), English poet and poet laureate, 1842

Waves crash on the beach in Manuel Antonio National Park, Costa Rica.

from "Ulysses"

Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks;
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends.
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down;
It may be that we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though 
We are not now that strength which in old days
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.

--Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892), English poet and poet laureate, written 1842

Stephen Colbert had Helen Mirren read this selection from Ulysses to him on March 9, 2018.