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 honor'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 for ever 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 fulfill
This labor, 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 honor 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.
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From guest chrisdude (contact)
"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 for ever when I move. " my favorite part reads like gold -
Understand the poem
http://oldpoetry.com/column/show/32
Understand the poem by reading this essay. Thank you. Sam -
I think people often forget that in leaving, Odysseus basicaly abandons his domestic duties. When I read this poem I get the sense that Tennyson is imploring the reader to push forward in life, but also critical of excess.
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this is indeed my all favourite poem.. and i was so thankful that it is in my syllabus this year for english.. i know this poem backwards. my classmate and i are actually going to act this out.. that is going to be super fun...
Sam
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I first heard a bit of this poem in the movie "Dead Poet's Society" and it really got me. "To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield". It's a poem of strength, to look to the future and the past at the same time. Amazing. That's all there is to it.
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I don't believe anyone, including Homer, has captured Odysseus' voice as Tennyson has. It's grand yet plaintive, sad yet entirely hopeful. Who could say no to this summons? And where have our own leaders gone? Can anyone imagine Bush or Clinton or ANY of our current "leaders" speaking with this kind of courage and conviction and majesty? We seem to live in a world of Telemachuses, and maybe Wordsworth said it best: "Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I ... Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn."
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This poem is great. His best poem. Where can i go to see some critical essays written on this though?
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It is the sort of poem I enjoy.
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I think Tennyson is utterly utterly beautiful
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