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b'A Tennyson read by Classic Poetry Aloud:\\nhttp://www.classicpoetryaloud.com/\\n\\nGiving voice to the poetry of the past.\\n\\n---------------------------------------------------\\n\\nThe Lotos-Eaters\\n\\nby Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809 \\u2013 1892) \\n \\n \\n\\u201cCourage!\\u201d he said, and pointed toward the land, \\n\\u201cThis mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon.\\u201d \\nIn the afternoon they came unto a land \\nIn which it seemed always afternoon. \\nAll round the coast the languid air did swoon, \\nBreathing like one that hath a weary dream. \\nFull-faced above the valley stood the moon; \\nAnd, like a downward smoke, the slender stream \\nAlong the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem. \\n \\nA land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, \\nSlow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go; \\nAnd some thro\\u2019 wavering lights and shadows broke, \\nRolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below. \\nThey saw the gleaming river seaward flow \\nFrom the inner land; far off, three mountain-tops, \\nThree silent pinnacles of aged snow, \\nStood sunset-flush\\u2019d; and, dew\\u2019d with showery drops, \\nUp-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. \\n \\nThe charmed sunset linger\\u2019d low adown \\nIn the red West; thro\\u2019 mountain clefts the dale \\nWas seen far inland, and the yellow down \\nBorder\\u2019d with palm, and many a winding vale \\nAnd meadow, set with slender galingale; \\nA land where all things always seem\\u2019d the same! \\nAnd round about the keel with faces pale, \\nDark faces pale against that rosy flame, \\nThe mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came. \\n \\nBranches they bore of that enchanted stem, \\nLaden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave \\nTo each, but whoso did receive of them \\nAnd taste, to him the gushing of the wave \\nFar far away did seem to mourn and rave \\nOn alien shores; and if his fellow spake, \\nHis voice was thin, as voices from the grave; \\nAnd deep-asleep he seem\\u2019d, yet all awake, \\nAnd music in his ears his beating heart did make. \\n \\nThey sat them down upon the yellow sand, \\nBetween the sun and moon upon the shore; \\nAnd sweet it was to dream of Fatherland, \\nOf child, and wife, and slave; but evermore \\nMost weary seem\\u2019d the sea, weary the oar, \\nWeary the wandering fields of barren foam. \\nThen some one said, \\u201cWe will return no more;\\u201d \\nAnd all at once they sang, \\u201cOur island home \\nIs far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam.\\u201d \\n \\nCHORIC SONG\\nI\\n\\nThere is sweet music here that softer falls \\nThan petals from blown roses on the grass, \\nOr night-dews on still waters between walls \\nOf shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; \\nMusic that gentlier on the spirit lies, \\nThan tir\\u2019d eyelids upon tir\\u2019d eyes; \\nMusic that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. \\nHere are cool mosses deep, \\nAnd thro\\u2019 the moss the ivies creep, \\nAnd in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, \\nAnd from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. \\n \\nII\\n\\nWhy are we weigh\\u2019d upon with heaviness, \\nAnd utterly consumed with sharp distress, \\nWhile all things else have rest from weariness? \\nAll things have rest: why should we toil alone, \\nWe only toil, who are the first of things, \\nAnd make perpetual moan, \\nStill from one sorrow to another thrown; \\nNor ever fold our wings, \\nAnd cease from wanderings, \\nNor steep our brows in slumber\\u2019s holy balm; \\nNor harken what the inner spirit sings, \\n\\u201cThere is no joy but calm!\\u201d\\u2014 \\nWhy should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? \\n \\nIII\\n\\nLo! in the middle of the wood, \\nThe folded leaf is woo\\u2019d from out the bud \\nWith winds upon the branch, and there \\nGrows green and broad, and takes no care, \\nSun-steep\\u2019d at noon, and in the moon \\nNightly dew-fed; and turning yellow \\nFalls, and floats adown the air. \\nLo! sweeten\\u2019d with the summer light, \\nThe full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, \\nDrops in a silent autumn night. \\nAll its allotted length of days \\nThe flower ripens in its place, \\nRipens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, \\nFast-rooted in the fruitful soil. \\n \\nIV\\n\\nHateful is the dark-blue sky, \\nVaulted o\\u2019er the dark-blue sea. \\nDeath is the end of life; ah, why \\nShould life all labor be? \\nLet us alone. Time driveth onward fast, \\nAnd in a little while our lips are dumb. \\nLet us alone. What is it that will last? \\nAll things are taken from us, and become \\nPortions and parcels of the dreadful past. \\nLet us alone. What pleasure can we have \\nTo war with evil? Is there any peace \\nIn ever climbing up the climbing wave? \\nAll things have rest, and ripen toward the grave \\nIn silence\\u2014ripen, fall, and cease: \\nGive us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. \\n \\nV\\n\\nHow sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, \\nWith half-shut eyes ever to seem \\nFalling asleep in a half-dream! \\nTo dream and dream, like yonder amber light, \\nWhich will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; \\nTo hear each other\\u2019s whisper\\u2019d speech; \\nEating the Lotos day by day, \\nTo watch the crisping ripples on the beach, \\nAnd tender curving lines of creamy spray; \\nTo lend our hearts and spirits wholly \\nTo the influence of mild-minded melancholy; \\nTo muse and brood and live again in memory, \\nWith those old faces of our infancy \\nHeap\\u2019d over with a mound of grass, \\nTwo handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass! \\n \\nVI\\n\\nDear is the memory of our wedded lives, \\nAnd dear the last embraces of our wives \\nAnd their warm tears; but all hath suffer\\u2019d change; \\nFor surely now our household hearths are cold, \\nOur sons inherit us, our looks are strange, \\nAnd we should come like ghosts to trouble joy. \\nOr else the island princes over-bold \\nHave eat our substance, and the minstrel sings \\nBefore them of the ten years\\u2019 war in Troy, \\nAnd our great deeds, as half-forgotten things. \\nIs there confusion in the little isle? \\nLet what is broken so remain. \\nThe Gods are hard to reconcile; \\n\\u2019Tis hard to settle order once again. \\nThere is confusion worse than death, \\nTrouble on trouble, pain on pain, \\nLong labor unto aged breath, \\nSore task to hearts worn out by many wars \\nAnd eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. \\n \\nVII\\n\\nBut, propped on beds of amaranth and moly, \\nHow sweet\\u2014while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly\\u2014 \\nWith half-dropped eyelids still, \\nBeneath a heaven dark and holy, \\nTo watch the long bright river drawing slowly \\nHis waters from the purple hill\\u2014 \\nTo hear the dewy echoes calling \\nFrom cave to cave thro\\u2019 the thick-twined vine\\u2014 \\nTo watch the emerald-color\\u2019d water falling \\nThro\\u2019 many a woven acanthus-wreath divine! \\nOnly to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, \\nOnly to hear were sweet, stretch\\u2019d out beneath the pine. \\n \\nVIII\\n\\nThe Lotos blooms below the barren peak, \\nThe Lotos blows by every winding creek; \\nAll day the wind breathes low with mellower tone; \\nThro\\u2019 every hollow cave and alley lone \\nRound and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. \\nWe have had enough of action, and of motion we, \\nRoll\\u2019d to starboard, roll\\u2019d to larboard, when the surge was seething free, \\nWhere the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. \\nLet us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, \\nIn the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined \\nOn the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. \\nFor they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl\\u2019d \\nFar below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl\\u2019d \\nRound their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world; \\nWhere they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, \\nBlight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, \\nClanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. \\nBut they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song \\nSteaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, \\nLike a tale of little meaning tho\\u2019 the words are strong; \\nChanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, \\nSow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, \\nStoring yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; \\nTill they perish and they suffer\\u2014some, \\u2019tis whisper\\u2019d\\u2014down in hell \\nSuffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, \\nResting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. \\nSurely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore \\nThan labor in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; \\nO, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. \\n\\nFirst aired: 6 December 2007\\n\\nFor hundreds more poetry readings, visit the Classic Poetry Aloud index.\\n\\nReading \\xa9 Classic Poetry Aloud 2008'