English Idyls and Other Poems by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Source of book: I own a complete collection of Tennyson’s poetry

Along with the general decline of interest in poetry has come a certain disdain for poets of the Romantic and Victorian Eras, of which Tennyson is one of the greatest. Perhaps it is the unabashed emotion, the love of beauty, the optimism? If it were merely an objection to the sexism and colonialism of the era, then other genres should have suffered too, and yet the novels are not so roundly mocked as the poetry. This is all a real shame, as some of the most beautiful, evocative, and perceptive poetry in the English language was written during the 19th Century.

Since I have the complete Tennyson (in a Modern Library hardback), I have been reading the poems roughly in order. I skipped the juvenalia, and started with the 1833 collection that made his reputation. Later, in 1842, Tennyson issued the first collection along with a new collection in a two-part Poems. It is the second half of that collection that forms the subject of this review.

As I alluded to above, reading Tennyson is, well, complicated. He was a man of his time. But also one who transcended his time. He was, perhaps by his nature, a conservative. At least in many ways. But he also was troubled by his times too, and to put him down as another jingoist and sexist Victorian is an oversimplification. In his religion too, he was...complicated. So many of his poems seem an affirmation of the typical Christian doctrines of his time and place, but he also expressed some fairly shocking sentiments about religion. I find that this actually fits well. Artists - particularly poets - live in the spaces in between. They deal with a part of life that cannot be easily divided into black and white. Poets speak of a reality that is more felt than seen, and truth that is more true because it is evoked, not stated outright. Tennyson struggled with debilitating depression for his entire life, and felt his personal tragedies deeply. It is only one who could feel and hurt as he did who could really grasp the truth in his line, “"There lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds." That line comes from In Memoriam, his long lament for the death of his close friend.

So, for me, even as I wince at some of his lines, I find I am carried along in the beauty of his language, and recognize him as a true kindred spirit speaking across a century and a half.

The collection starts off with a series of what he terms “English Idyls.” These are narrative poems in blank verse, many on historical themes. After a brief introduction where the narrator (not necessarily, but possibly Tennyson himself) discusses the old versus the new with some friends. Eventually, he is coaxed into sharing his own tribute to the old days - namely, an epic poem about King Arthur. The result is “Morte D’Arthur,” which would eventually become the closing section of Idylls of the King. I still haven’t read all of Idylls yet, and it has been some years since I read any of it. (This is a shame, because I have a gorgeous hardback of Idylls. I have, however, read Malory’s version...) The language is just so gorgeous, it is hard to even describe it. It is just such that when you read it (as when you read or hear Shakespeare), you just feel the music of the poetry. I’ll quote just a bit of it - one of my favorite passages.

And slowly answer'd Arthur from the barge:

"The old order changeth, yielding place to new,

And God fulfils Himself in many ways,

Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?

I have lived my life, and that which I have done

May He within Himself make pure! but thou,

If thou shouldst never see my face again,

Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer

Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice

Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

For what are men better than sheep or goats

That nourish a blind life within the brain,

If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer

Both for themselves and those who call them friend?

For so the whole round earth is every way

Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.

But now farewell. I am going a long way

With these thou seëst—if indeed I go—

(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)

To the island-valley of Avilion;

Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,

Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies

Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard-lawns

And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea,

Where I will heal me of my grievous wound."

Read that out loud. Let the words wash over you. And then re-read it, focusing on what an epic deathbed statement it really is. Arthur accepts the changing of the world, and releases his power with that combination of faith and doubt that characterizes the best of Tennyson.

(I was also reminded that books like The Buried Giant, which I just read, or A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court) make so much more sense if you have read the original Arthurian legends.)

“Morte D’Arthur” wasn’t the only poem in this collection that I had read before. In fact, there were a good number that are familiar enough that most of us have read them before in high school, college, and I hope in the years since. (Yeah, it’s depressing how many people haven’t really read poetry after graduation.)

One of those old friends was “Locksley Hall.” I read the whole thing in High School - we had to read excerpts, but I tend to like reading things in context. The plot is pretty simple. The young man returns to Locksley Hall, his college, and muses on his life. In particular, the woman that rejected him. The poem thus combines optimism for the future with the pain and bitterness of loss. Along the way, the poet condemns the materialism and classism that led to his rejection, and yet hopes that mankind will find a better way someday.

The poem is in rhymed couplets, in rather long lines of 15 syllables - really two sets of iambic tetrameter spliced together. If one were to split the lines, there would be a feminine ending on the first half, and a masculine ending on the second.

The poem is most famous, I suppose, for the line:

In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

And thus, the poet commences a conversation with his former beloved. He recalls the joy of their love. But boy, does it turn bitter. Tennyson doesn’t shy away from the ugly side of his nature.

Falser than all fancy fathoms, falser than all songs have sung,

Puppet to a father's threat, and servile to a shrewish tongue!

Is it well to wish thee happy?—having known me—to decline

On a range of lower feelings and a narrower heart than mine!

Yet it shall be; thou shalt lower to his level day by day,

What is fine within thee growing coarse to sympathize with clay.

As the husband is, the wife is: thou art mated with a clown,

And the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force,

Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

What is this? his eyes are heavy; think not they are glazed with wine.

Go to him, it is thy duty, kiss him, take his hand in thine.

It may be my lord is weary, that his brain is overwrought:

Soothe him with thy finer fancies, touch him with thy lighter thought.

He will answer to the purpose, easy things to understand—

Better thou wert dead before me, tho' I slew thee with my hand!

Better thou and I were lying, hidden from the heart's disgrace,

Roll'd in one another's arms, and silent in a last embrace.

Cursed be the social wants that sin against the strength of youth!

Cursed be the social lies that warp us from the living truth!

Cursed be the sickly forms that err from honest Nature's rule!

Cursed be the gold that gilds the straiten'd forehead of the fool!

It goes on for a good while, as he imagines her life to a dull fool. Tennyson also rails at the fact that wealth is all the world cares for. He isn’t wrong, alas. But then, he turns to a more optimistic tone, speaking of his youthful idealism for the future. In his vision, he foresees a league of nations, a decline (and eventual end) of war, the triumph of reason over hate, and a more egalitarian future. Alas, he also says some condescending things about non-whites, and (in his passion against the faithless Amy) some insulting things about women. Sour notes in an otherwise beautiful and emotionally perceptive poem. Tennyson (who wasn’t that old, actually) intentionally wrote to describe youthful passions, good and bad, so perhaps one shouldn’t confuse the narrator with the poet.

One more line is so good that I have to quote it. Also, I recognized it as the source of the title from a rather good book I read last year.

Not in vain the distance beacons. Forward, forward let us range,

Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

Again, as I have so many times when reading Tennyson, I marveled at the music inherent in this line. It sings, it lives. Every word has both meaning in itself and in its context - it’s place in the constellation of sounds as the line rushes on.

The next poem intrigued me both because of its theme and because the person to whom it was dedicated was unnamed. Subsequent research indicated that it was probably a reference to Keats - whose scandalous (by Victorian standards) love letters were published after his death. It is even more true in our own age, when to be a celebrity of any sort means to have all one’s skeletons exposed.

To ——

After Reading a Life and Letters

‘Cursed be he that moves my bones.’

Shakespeare’s Epitaph.

YOU might have won the Poet’s name,

    If such be worth the winning now,

    And gain’d a laurel for your brow

Of sounder leaf than I can claim;

But you have made the wiser choice,

    A life that moves to gracious ends

    Thro’ troops of unrecording friends,

A deedful life, a silent voice:

And you have miss’d the irreverent doom

    Of those that wear the Poet’s crown;

    Hereafter, neither knave nor clown

Shall hold their orgies at your tomb.

For now the Poet cannot die,

    Nor leave his music as of old,

    But round him ere he scarce be cold

Begins the scandal and the cry:

‘Proclaim the faults he would not show;

    Break lock and seal: betray the trust;

    Keep nothing sacred: ’tis but just

The many-headed beast should know.’

Ah, shameless! for he did but sing

    A song that pleased us from its worth;

    No public life was his on earth,

No blazon’d statesman he, nor king.

He gave the people of his best;

    His worst he kept, his best he gave.

    My Shakespeare’s curse on clown and knave

Who will not let his ashes rest!

Who make it seem more sweet to be

    The little life of bank and brier,

    The bird that pipes his lone desire

And dies unheard within his tree,

Than he that warbles long and loud

    And drops at Glory’s temple-gates,

    For whom the carrion vulture waits

To tear his heart before the crowd!

Again, Tennyson wears his heart on his sleeve, and says exactly what he thinks. A kindred spirit indeed.

I also wanted to quote what might be Tennyson’s shortest poem. It is pretty nice - but I quote it here primarily because it was the first Tennyson poem I read to my very small kids over a decade ago. It was the perfect illustration of the poetic art, from rhyme to meter to the use of repeated sounds to evoke a picture.

The Eagle

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;

Close to the sun in lonely lands,

Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

                                                

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;

He watches from his mountain walls,

And like a thunderbolt he falls.

I want to end this with what I have to say is on my list of 10 favorite poems. I swear I have re-read this at least once a year since I started this blog. (And numerous times before that.) It really encapsulates a lot of my own feelings - and more and more as I have gone from youth to middle age. Sure, I am not burdened with a kingdom (and I definitely would prefer to have my lovely bride accompany me on any and all adventures), but I too know my time is limited. I really have no desire to waste it, particularly in trying to change people who have no incentive to change. I have indeed shaken the dust off my feet the last few years, to use another great line. Anyway, enjoy.

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.

I really could analyze nearly every line. But why? A poem like that can stand without comment, as a monument to internal truth, and the drive I feel to live while I am alive. 

***

Not sure why “idylls / idyls” is spelled differently. I tried to find something online, and it appears to have been spelled both ways. If anyone has a guess, let me know…

Poems (1833) by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Source of book: I own the complete Tennyson

Portrait by P.Krämer-Friedrich Bruckmann

Even those who are not fans of poetry have heard of Tennyson; although, I must say, many of those cannot actually name one of his poems. However, his name is instantly recognizable, and most can place him in the Nineteenth Century and associate him with the culture of Queen Victoria.

Tennyson’s reputation is well deserved, as he was thoroughly skilled at writing rhythms and pictures and moods. Even his worst poetry shows skill, if not always inspiration. (Given the quantity he wrote, he was bound to have a few duds. All prolific writers have some works that fail to rise to the highest level.)

In some ways, it is odd that I have reviewed Tennyson last of the three greatest Victorian poets, since he is the best known. I read a play by Robert Browning earlier this year, and reviewed Matthew Arnold in 2011.

Since most of the poems in this collection are fairly long, I have decided to link some of them, rather than quote them.

This particular collection was the second book of poetry written by Tennyson, and the one that established his reputation. It contains several of his best and best known works: “The Lotos Eaters,” one of a number of his poems that explore the emotional depths latent in The Odyssey is one of my favorites.

However, I must mention the opening poem. “The Lady of Shalott” can be quoted in part by any fan of Anne of Green Gables. (I have previously mentioned that Anne, particularly as portrayed by Megan Follows, was my junior high crush.)

There she weaves by night and day

A magic web with colours gay.

She has heard a whisper say,

A curse is on her if she stay

          To look down to Camelot.

If you can quote this from memory, you may be an Anne fan.

(Interesting note: this is the 1842 version. The original had different wording here, but I think the revised version is better, which may be why it is more commonly seen in print than the original.)

Here is the attempt to re-create the scene in which the body of the lady is floated down the river. (Anne’s quotations are selective, not sequential.)

 
 

The poem itself has an interesting form. The stanzas are nine lines long, and are divided into two sections of five and four lines, respectively. The first four lines of the first part rhyme, and the first three of the second part likewise rhyme. The fifth and ninth lines of each stanza not only rhyme, and rhyme with those corresponding lines throughout the entire poem, they end in one of only three words throughout: Shalott, Camelot, and Lancelot. This could easily feel forced, but Tennyson makes it all seem natural and inevitable.

The theme of the poem also fits with one of Tennyson’s favorite concerns: the balance between freedom and innocence. The lady may view the happenings of the world through a mirror only. She can never experience life directly, because of the vague curse. Tennyson perhaps deliberately alludes to Plato’s cave. In this instance, however, the lady does desire to see more than shadows, but it is her undoing. And yet, it is difficult to fault the lady for her actions. (Tennyson’s famous line in his later work, In Memoriam, “‘Tis better to have loved and lost / than never to have loved at all.” comes to mind.) Better, perhaps, to have lived - and died - than never to have lived. Tennyson may well have been describing his own feelings of alienation. He creates art - the magic web - but cannot leave his art to merely live.

The entire poem is worth a read.

The titles of at least two books have been drawn from this poem. The Mirror Crack’d is my wife’s least favorite Agatha Christie book. I previously reviewed I Am Half-Sick of Shadows by Alan Bradley.

The Lady of Shalott (1905) by William Hunt and Edward Hughes

I am half-sick of shadows, said the Lady of Shalott (1915) BY John Waterhouse

Tennyson explores this theme further in “The Two Voices,” another of my favorites from this collection.  This poem was originally titled “Thoughts of a Suicide,” and was written shortly after the death of his best friend, Arthur Hallam. (In Memoriam would be his monumental tribute to his friend.) Tennyson was prone to depression, and this catastrophic event brought him to the brink. The poem explores the poet’s thoughts as he hears the voices of his worse and better natures. He questions whether life is even worth living, and the voices argue back and forth about the meaning of life. Is there even a meaning? Is the world getting better or worse? Does that even matter? Ultimately, there is no satisfying resolution. Indeed, pain is endured, not explained away.

“O dull, one-sided voice,” said I,

“Wilt thou make everything a lie,

To flatter me that I may die?

“I know that age to age succeeds,

Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds,

A dust of systems and of creeds.”

As Job well knew, all the “systems and creeds” in the world are just a noise to a man in pain. Tennyson captures the irritation caused when a “comforter” spouts platitudes, whether secular or sacred during a time of grief. Ultimately, his refusal to give in to the easy answers of his own time gives this poem its timeless power.

“The Palace of Art” also addresses the state of the inner self.  Tennyson imagines building a palace within his soul, wherein all of the greatness of art and literature can dwell. It is truly an amazing edifice, but Tennyson fails to find the satisfaction he craves, instead finding himself sickened. He wishes to find a form of repentance in a small cottage, and yet, as the poem concludes, he leaves open the possibility that after his soul is cleansed, he may yet enjoy the beauty of the palace, without his pleasure being mere emptiness.

Just a few random excerpts:

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house
 Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.
 I said, "O Soul, make merry and carouse,
 Dear soul, for all is well".

***

Full of long-sounding corridors it was,
 That over-vaulted grateful gloom,
 Thro' which the livelong day my soul did pass,
 Well-pleased, from room to room.

Full of great rooms and small the palace stood,
 All various, each a perfect whole
 From living Nature, fit for every mood
 And change of my still soul.

***

Then in the towers I placed great bells that swung,
 Moved of themselves, with silver sound;
 And with choice paintings of wise men I hung
 The royal dais round.

For there was Milton like a seraph strong,
 Beside him Shakespeare bland and mild;
 And there the world-worn Dante grasp'd his song,
 And somewhat grimly smiled.

And there the Ionian father of the rest;
 A million wrinkles carved his skin;
 A hundred winters snow'd upon his breast,
 From cheek and throat and chin.

Beautiful language, and unforgettable images. The form also contributes to the experience. Tennyson tweaks the ballad form by lengthening each line by a foot. Pentameter followed by tetrameter, so it feels sort of like a ballad rhythm, but more stately and unhurried. To me, it seemed as if the earthy rush of the ballad was melded with the solemn pacing of the venerable pentameter, fusing sensual emotion with intellect. This ties in perfectly with the description of the palace, appealing alike to emotion and thought.

Loss is a favorite theme of Tennyson’s poems - and he and his friends experienced plenty of it. “To J.S.” was written to his friend James Spedding after the death of Spedding’s brother. It is worth quoting in full.

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.

'Tis 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--nor 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 arc

Of heaven, nor having wander'd far

Shot on the sudden into dark.

I knew your brother: his mute dust

I honour 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 fall'n 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 anyway,

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. 'Twere 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.

This is why Tennyson would be a good choice to read during times of sadness. His pain feels real and honest, but his despair isn’t complete, and his empathy is gentle.

“The Lotos Eaters” takes the story from Homer’s Odyssey, where the sailors eat of the fruit and forget their homeland, wishing to stay there forever. In Tennyson’s hands, we view the incident, not from Odysseus’ point of view, but from that of the sailors themselves. We experience their own conflicts of emotion as they are drawn between their love for their homeland and families, and the peace and joy they feel under the influence of the lotos fruit. During his lifetime, Tennyson was accused of promoting living in an opium stupor, or, alternately, advocating for the rejection of the Christian faith. With enough squinting, either could possibly be read into the text. I didn’t find either idea particularly necessary or helpful in enjoying this work. The poem works because it reflects universal human emotional conflicts. One need not eat a magic fruit to fantasize about a life without responsibility or an end to seemingly endless conflict.

Illustration by W.E.F Britten (1901)

I love the opening lines:

"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land,

"This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon."

In the afternoon they came unto a land

In which it seemed always afternoon.

All round the coast the languid air did swoon,

Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.

Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;

And like a downward smoke, the slender stream

Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.

And these, dreaming of the ultimate rest from striving and conflict:

IV

Hateful is the dark-blue sky,

Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea.

Death is the end of life; ah, why

Should life all labour be?

Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,

And in a little while our lips are dumb.

Let us alone. What is it that will last?

All things are taken from us, and become

Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.

Let us alone. What pleasure can we have

To war with evil? Is there any peace

In ever climbing up the climbing wave?

All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave

In silence; ripen, fall and cease:

Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.

And the stark reality Homer realized: after ten years of war, everything would be irrevocably changed anyway.

VI

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,

And dear the last embraces of our wives

And their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd change:

For surely now our household hearths are cold,

Our sons inherit us: our looks are strange:

And we should come like ghosts to trouble joy.

Or else the island princes over-bold

Have eat our substance, and the minstrel sings

Before them of the ten years' war in Troy,

And our great deeds, as half-forgotten things.

Is there confusion in the little isle?

Let what is broken so remain.

The Gods are hard to reconcile:

'Tis hard to settle order once again.

There is confusion worse than death,

Trouble on trouble, pain on pain,

Long labour unto aged breath,

Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars

And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars.

“The Lotos Eaters” inspired other artists. Edward Elgar set the opening stanza of the “Choric Song” for acapella choir.

Hubert Parry set the entire work to music, but I cannot find a clip of that, unfortunately. 

The Lotos/Lotus of the story is believed to be a relative of the jujube fruit, for what that is worth.

I’ll end on a more humorous note. This is “The Goose,” Tennyson’s take on the legend of the golden egg. At the time, it was politically charged, but can be enjoyed out of that context.

I knew an old wife lean and poor,

Her rags scarce held together;

There strode a stranger to the door,

And it was windy weather.

He held a goose upon his arm,

He utter'd rhyme and reason,

"Here, take the goose, and keep you warm,

It is a stormy season".

She caught the white goose by the leg,

A goose--'twas no great matter.

The goose let fall a golden egg

With cackle and with clatter.

She dropt the goose, and caught the pelf,

And ran to tell her neighbours;

And bless'd herself, and cursed herself,

And rested from her labours.

And feeding high, and living soft,

Grew plump and able-bodied;

Until the grave churchwarden doff'd,

The parson smirk'd and nodded.

So sitting, served by man and maid,

She felt her heart grow prouder:

But, ah! the more the white goose laid

It clack'd and cackled louder.

It clutter'd here, it chuckled there;

It stirr'd the old wife's mettle:

She shifted in her elbow-chair,

And hurl'd the pan and kettle.

"A quinsy choke thy cursed note!"

Then wax'd her anger stronger:

"Go, take the goose, and wring her throat,

I will not bear it longer".

Then yelp'd the cur, and yawl'd the cat;

Ran Gaffer, stumbled Gammer.

The goose flew this way and flew that,

And fill'd the house with clamour.

As head and heels upon the floor

They flounder'd all together,

There strode a stranger to the door,

And it was windy weather:

He took the goose upon his arm,

He utter'd words of scorning;

"So keep you cold, or keep you warm,

It is a stormy morning".

The wild wind rang from park and plain,

And round the attics rumbled,

Till all the tables danced again,

And half the chimneys tumbled.

The glass blew in, the fire blew out,

The blast was hard and harder.

Her cap blew off, her gown blew up,

And a whirlwind clear'd the larder;

And while on all sides breaking loose

Her household fled the danger,

Quoth she, "The Devil take the goose,

And God forget the stranger!"

It’s hard to suggest a bad place to start when it comes to Tennyson. (My kids like “The Eagle.”) This collection is a pretty good place to start. Whether or not you like Victorian poetry in general, it is hard not to enjoy Tennyson’s marvelous use of language and rhythm and the way he makes his words augment his meaning by their very sounds.