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The Carven Pipe - page #6
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The splendour falls on castle walls
and snowy summits old in story:
the long light shakes across the lakes,
and the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying;
blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying,
dying.
O hark, O hear! How thin and clear,
and thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
the horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying,
dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,
they faint on hill or field or river:
our echoes roll from soul to soul,
and grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying;
and answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying,
dying.
"Blow, Bugle, Blow" Tennyson |
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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 from the ringing plains of windy Troy.....
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.
"Ulysses" Tennyson |
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The hills are shadows and they flow
from form to form, and nothing stands;
they melt like mist, the solid lands,
like clouds they shape themselves and go.
"There rolls the deep" Tennyson |
continued - page #7
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