Thursday, November 15, 2018

cambridge nov 2018

Three Years She Grew

Three years she grew in sun and shower, 
Then Nature said, "A lovelier flower 
On earth was never sown; 
This Child I to myself will take; 
She shall be mine, and I will make 
A Lady of my own. 

"Myself will to my darling be 
Both law and impulse: and with me 
The Girl, in rock and plain, 
In earth and heaven, in glade and bower, 
Shall feel an overseeing power 
To kindle or restrain. 

"She shall be sportive as the fawn 
That wild with glee across the lawn 
Or up the mountain springs; 
And hers shall be the breathing balm, 
And hers the silence and the calm 
Of mute insensate things. 

"The floating clouds their state shall lend 
To her; for her the willow bend; 
Nor shall she fail to see 
Even in the motions of the Storm 
Grace that shall mould the Maiden's form 
By silent sympathy. 

"The stars of midnight shall be dear 
To her; and she shall lean her ear 
In many a secret place 
Where rivulets dance their wayward round, 
And beauty born of murmuring sound 
Shall pass into her face. 

"And vital feelings of delight 
Shall rear her form to stately height, 
Her virgin bosom swell; 
Such thoughts to Lucy I will give 
While she and I together live 
Here in this happy dell." 

Thus Nature spake—The work was done— 
How soon my Lucy's race was run! 
She died, and left to me 
This heath, this calm and quiet scene; 
The memory of what has been, 
And never more will be. 



Lord Ullin's Daughter


A chieftain to the Highlands bound
Cries ‘Boatman, do not tarry!
And I’ll give thee a silver pound
To row us o’er the ferry!’
 
‘Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle
This dark and stormy water?’
‘O I’m the chief of Ulva’s isle,
And this, Lord Ullin’s daughter.
 
‘And fast before her father’s men
Three days we’ve fled together,
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
 
‘His horsemen hard behind us ride—
Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride
When they have slain her lover?
 
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
‘I’ll go, my chief, I’m ready:
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady:—
 
‘And by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
So though the waves are raging white
I’ll row you o’er the ferry.’
 
By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And in the scowl of heaven each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
 
But still as wilder blew the wind
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode arméd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.
 
‘O haste thee, haste!’ the lady cries,
Though tempests round us gather;
I’ll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.’
 
The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,—
When, O! too strong for human hand
The tempest gather’d o’er her.
 
And still they row’d amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reach’d that fatal shore,—
His wrath was changed to wailing.
 
For, sore dismay’d, through storm and shade
His child he did discover:—
One lovely hand she stretch’d for aid,
And one was round her lover.
 
‘Come back! Come back!’ he cried in grief
‘Across this stormy water:
And I’ll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter!—O my daughter!’
 
‘Twas vain: the loud waves lash’d the shore,
Return or aid preventing:
The waters wild went o’er his child,
And he was left lamenting.

Home they brought her warrior dead.
Alfred Tennyson.

Home they brought her warrior dead: 
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry: 
All her maidens, watching, said, 
‘She must weep or she will die.’ 

Then they praised him, soft and low, 
Called him worthy to be loved, 
Truest friend and noblest foe; 
Yet she neither spoke nor moved. 

Stole a maiden from her place, 
Lightly to the warrior stepped, 
Took the face-cloth from the face; 
Yet she neither moved nor wept. 

Rose a nurse of ninety years, 
Set his child upon her knee— 
Like summer tempest came her tears— 
‘Sweet my child, I live for thee.’




She Walks in Beauty


She walks in beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 
And all that’s best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes; 
Thus mellowed to that tender light 
Which heaven to gaudy day denies. 

One shade the more, one ray the less, 
Had half impaired the nameless grace 
Which waves in every raven tress, 
Or softly lightens o’er her face; 
Where thoughts serenely sweet express, 
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. 

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow, 
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, 
The smiles that win, the tints that glow, 
But tell of days in goodness spent, 
A mind at peace with all below, 
A heart whose love is innocent!

Annabel Lee


It was many and many a year ago, 
   In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden there lived whom you may know 
   By the name of Annabel Lee; 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 
   Than to love and be loved by me. 

I was a child and she was a child, 
   In this kingdom by the sea, 
But we loved with a love that was more than love— 
   I and my Annabel Lee— 
With a love that the wingèd seraphs of Heaven 
   Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that, long ago, 
   In this kingdom by the sea, 
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling 
   My beautiful Annabel Lee; 
So that her highborn kinsmen came 
   And bore her away from me, 
To shut her up in a sepulchre 
   In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not half so happy in Heaven, 
   Went envying her and me— 
Yes!—that was the reason (as all men know, 
   In this kingdom by the sea) 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 
   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 
   Of those who were older than we— 
   Of many far wiser than we— 
And neither the angels in Heaven above 
   Nor the demons down under the sea 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams 
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes 
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee; 
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side 
   Of my darling—my darling—my life 


Song: Sweetest love, I do not go

Sweetest love, I do not go,
         For weariness of thee,
Nor in hope the world can show
         A fitter love for me;
                But since that I
Must die at last, 'tis best
To use myself in jest
         Thus by feign'd deaths to die.

Yesternight the sun went hence,
         And yet is here today;
He hath no desire nor sense,
         Nor half so short a way:
                Then fear not me,
But believe that I shall make
Speedier journeys, since I take
         More wings and spurs than he.

O how feeble is man's power,
         That if good fortune fall,
Cannot add another hour,
         Nor a lost hour recall!
                But come bad chance,
And we join to'it our strength,
And we teach it art and length,
         Itself o'er us to'advance.

When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind,
         But sigh'st my soul away;
When thou weep'st, unkindly kind,
         My life's blood doth decay.
                It cannot be
That thou lov'st me, as thou say'st,
If in thine my life thou waste,
         That art the best of me.

Let not thy divining heart
         Forethink me any ill;
Destiny may take thy part,
         And may thy fears fulfil;
                But think that we
Are but turn'd aside to sleep;
They who one another keep 
Alive, ne'er parted be. 




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