Classic and Contemporary Poetry
TO J. S., by ALFRED TENNYSON Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: The wind that beats the mountain blows Last Line: Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. Alternate Author Name(s): Tennyson, Lord Alfred; Tennyson, 1st Baron; Tennyson Of Aldworth And Farringford, Baron Subject(s): Death; Spedding, James (1808-1881); Dead, The | ||||||||
THE wind that beats the mountain blows More softly round the open wold, And gently comes the world to those That are cast in gentle mould. And me this knowledge bolder made, Or else I had not dared to flow In these words toward you, and invade Even with a verse your holy woe. 'T is strange that those we lean on most, Those in whose laps our limbs are nursed, Fall into shadow, soonest lost; Those we love first are taken first. God gives us love. Something to love He lends us; but, when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone. This is the curse of time. Alas! In grief I am not all unlearn'd; Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass; One went who never hath return'd. He will not smile -- not speak to me Once more. Two years his chair is seen Empty before us. That was he Without whose life I had not been. Your loss is rarer; for this star Rose with you thro' a little are Of heaven, nor having wander'd far Shot on the sudden into dark. I knew your brother; his mute dust I honor and his living worth; A man more pure and bold and just Was never born into the earth. I have not look'd upon you nigh Since that dear soul hath fallen asleep. Great Nature is more wise than I; I will not tell you not to weep. And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, Drawn from the spirit thro' the brain, I will not even preach to you, 'Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain.' Let Grief be her own mistress still. She loveth her own anguish deep More than much pleasure. Let her will Be done -- to weep or not to weep. I will not say, 'God's ordinance Of death is blown in every wind;' For that is not a common chance That takes away a noble mind. His memory long will live alone In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun, And dwells in heaven half the night. Vain solace! Memory standing near Cast down her eyes, and in her throat Her voice seem'd distant, and a tear Dropt on the letters as I wrote. I wrote I know not what. In truth, How should I soothe you any way, Who miss the brother of your youth? Yet something I did wish to say; For he too was a friend to me. Both are my friends, and my true breast Bleedeth for both; yet it may be That only silence suiteth best. Words weaker than your grief would make Grief more. 'T were better I should cease Although myself could almost take The place of him that sleeps in peace. Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace; Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, While the stars burn, the moons increase, And the great ages onward roll. Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep full of rest from head to feet; Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FRIEND KILLED IN THE WAR by ANTHONY HECHT FOR JAMES MERRILL: AN ADIEU by ANTHONY HECHT TARANTULA: OR THE DANCE OF DEATH by ANTHONY HECHT CHAMPS D?ÇÖHONNEUR by ERNEST HEMINGWAY NOTE TO REALITY by TONY HOAGLAND A CHARACTER by ALFRED TENNYSON |
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