10 Best Famous Downs Poems

Here is a collection of the top 10 all-time best famous Downs poems. This is a select list of the best famous Downs poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Downs poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of downs poems.

• All Famous Downs Poems

 Come swish around, my pretty punk,
And keep me dancing still
That I may stay a sober man
Although I drink my fill.
Sobriety is a jewel
That I do much adore;
And therefore keep me dancing
Though drunkards lie and snore.
O mind your feet, O mind your feet,
Keep dancing like a wave,
And under every dancer
A dead man in his grave.
No ups and downs, my pretty,
A mermaid, not a punk;
A drunkard is a dead man,
And all dead men are drunk.

 But, lo! from forth a copse that neighbours by,
A breeding jennet, lusty, young, and proud,
Adonis' trampling courser doth espy,
And forth she rushes, snorts and neighs aloud;
The strong-neck'd steed, being tied unto a tree,
Breaketh his rein, and to her straight goes he.

Imperiously he leaps, he neighs, he bounds,
And now his woven girths he breaks asunder;
The bearing earth with his hard hoof he wounds,
Whose hollow womb resounds like heaven's thunder;
The iron bit he crushes 'tween his teeth
Controlling what he was controlled with.

His ears up-prick'd; his braided hanging mane
Upon his compass'd crest now stand on end;
His nostrils drink the air, and forth again,
As from a furnace, vapours doth he send:
His eye, which scornfully glisters like fire,
Shows his hot courage and his high desire.

Sometime her trots, as if he told the steps,
With gentle majesty and modest pride;
Anon he rears upright, curvets and leaps,
As who should say, 'Lo! thus my strength is tried;
And this I do to captivate the eye
Of the fair breeder that is standing by.'

What recketh he his rider's angry stir,
His flattering 'Holla,' or his 'Stand, I say?'
What cares he now for curb of pricking spur?
For rich caparisons or trapping gay?
He sees his love, and nothing else he sees,
Nor nothing else with his proud sight agrees.

Look, when a painter would surpass the life, 
In limning out a well-proportion'd steed,
His art with nature's workmanship at strife,
As if the dead the living should exceed;
So did this horse excel a common one,
In shape, in courage, colour, pace and bone

Round-hoof'd, short-jointed, fetlocks shag and long,
Broad breast, full eye, small head, and nostril wide,
High crest, short ears, straight legs and passing strong,
Thin mane, thick tail, broad buttock, tender hide:
Look, what a horse should have he did not lack,
Save a proud rider on so proud a back.

Sometimes he scuds far off, and there he stares;
Anon he starts at stirring of a feather;
To bid the wind a race he now prepares,
And whe'r he run or fly they know not whether;
For through his mane and tail the high wind sings,
Fanning the hairs, who wave like feather'd wings.

He looks upon his love, and neighs unto her;
She answers him as if she knew his mind;
Being proud, as females are, to see him woo her,
She puts on outward strangeness, seems unkind,
Spurns at his love and scorns the heat he feels,
Beating his kind embracements with her heels.

Then, like a melancholy malcontent,
He vails his tail that, like a falling plume
Cool shadow to his melting buttock lent:
He stamps, and bites the poor flies in his fume.
His love, perceiving how he is enrag'd,
Grew kinder, and his fury was assuag'd.

His testy master goeth about to take him;
When lo! the unback'd breeder, full of fear,
Jealous of catching, swiftly doth forsake him,
With her the horse, and left Adonis there.
As they were mad, unto the wood they hie them,
Out-stripping crows that strive to over-fly them.

I prophesy they death, my living sorrow,
If thou encounter with the boar to-morrow.

"But if thou needs wilt hunt, be rul'd by me;
Uncouple at the timorous flying hare,
Or at the fox which lives by subtlety,
Or at the roe which no encounter dare:
Pursue these fearful creatures o'er the downs,
And on they well-breath'd horse keep with they hounds.

"And when thou hast on food the purblind hare,
Mark the poor wretch, to overshoot his troubles
How he outruns with winds, and with what care
He cranks and crosses with a thousand doubles:
The many musits through the which he goes
Are like a labyrinth to amaze his foes.

"Sometime he runs among a flock of sheep,
To make the cunning hounds mistake their smell,
And sometime where earth-delving conies keep,
To stop the loud pursuers in their yell,
And sometime sorteth with a herd of deer;
Danger deviseth shifts; wit waits on fear:

"For there his smell with other being mingled,
The hot scent-snuffing hounds are driven to doubt,
Ceasing their clamorous cry till they have singled 
With much ado the cold fault cleanly out;
Then do they spend their mouths: Echo replies,
As if another chase were in the skies.

"By this, poor Wat, far off upon a hill,
Stands on his hinder legs with listening ear,
To hearken if his foes pursue him still:
Anon their loud alarums he doth hear;
And now his grief may be compared well
To one sore sick that hears the passing-bell.

"Then shalt thou see the dew-bedabbled wretch
Turn, and return, indenting with the way;
Each envious briar his weary legs doth scratch,
Each shadow makes him stop, each murmur stay:
For misery is trodden on by many,
And being low never reliev'd by any.

"Lie quietly, and hear a little more;
Nay, do not struggle, for thou shalt not rise:
To make thee hate the hunting of the boar,
Unlike myself thou hear'st me moralize,
Applying this to that, and so to so;
For love can comment upon every woe."

 You ask me to be gay and glad 
While lurid clouds of danger loom, 
And vain and bad and gambling mad, 
Australia races to her doom. 
You bid me sing the light and fair, 
The dance, the glance on pleasure's wings – 
While you have wives who will not bear, 
And beer to drown the fear of things. 

A war with reason you would wage 
To be amused for your short span, 
Until your children's heritage 
Is claimed for China by Japan. 
The football match, the cricket score, 
The "scraps", the tote, the mad'ning Cup – 
You drunken fools that evermore 
"To-morrow morning" sober up! 

I see again with haggard eyes, 
The thirsty land, the wasted flood; 
Unpeopled plains beyond the skies, 
And precious streams that run to mud; 
The ruined health, the wasted wealth, 
In our mad cities by the seas, 
The black race suicide by stealth, 
The starved and murdered industries! 

You bid me make a farce of day, 
And make a mockery of death; 
While not five thousand miles away 
The yellow millions pant for breath! 
But heed me now, nor ask me this – 
Lest you too late should wake to find 
That hopeless patriotism is 
The strongest passion in mankind! 

You'd think the seer sees, perhaps, 
While staring on from days like these, 
Politeness in the conquering Japs, 
Or mercy in the banned Chinese! 
I mind the days when parents stood, 
And spake no word, while children ran 
From Christian lanes and deemed it good 
To stone a helpless Chinaman. 

I see the stricken city fall, 
The fathers murdered at their doors, 
The sack, the massacre of all 
Save healthy slaves and paramours – 
The wounded hero at the stake, 
The pure girl to the leper's kiss – 
God, give us faith, for Christ's own sake 
To kill our womankind ere this. 

I see the Bushman from Out Back, 
From mountain range and rolling downs, 
And carts race on each rough bush track 
With food and rifles from the towns; 
I see my Bushmen fight and die 
Amongst the torn blood-spattered trees, 
And hear all night the wounded cry 
For men! More men and batteries! 

I see the brown and yellow rule 
The southern lands and southern waves, 
White children in the heathen school, 
And black and white together slaves; 
I see the colour-line so drawn 
(I see it plain and speak I must), 
That our brown masters of the dawn 
Might, aye, have fair girls for their lusts! 

With land and life and race at stake – 
No matter which race wronged, or how – 
Let all and one Australia make 
A superhuman effort now. 
Clear out the blasting parasites, 
The paid-for-one-thing manifold, 
And curb the goggled "social-lights" 
That "scorch" to nowhere with our gold. 

Store guns and ammunition first, 
Build forts and warlike factories, 
Sink bores and tanks where drought is worst, 
Give over time to industries. 
The outpost of the white man's race, 
Where next his flag shall be unfurled, 
Make clean the place! Make strong the place! 
Call white men in from all the world!

 When I am living in the Midlands
 That are sodden and unkind,
I light my lamp in the evening:
 My work is left behind;
And the great hills of the South Country
 Come back into my mind.

The great hills of the South Country
 They stand along the sea;
And it's there walking in the high woods
 That I could wish to be,
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
 Walking along with me.

The men that live in North England
 I saw them for a day:
Their hearts are set upon the waste fells,
 Their skies are fast and grey;
From their castle-walls a man may see
 The mountains far away.

The men that live in West England
 They see the Severn strong,
A-rolling on rough water brown
 Light aspen leaves along.
They have the secret of the Rocks,
 And the oldest kind of song.

But the men that live in the South Country
 Are the kindest and most wise,
They get their laughter from the loud surf,
 And the faith in their happy eyes
Comes surely from our Sister the Spring
 When over the sea she flies;
The violets suddenly bloom at her feet,
 She blesses us with surprise.

I never get between the pines
 But I smell the Sussex air;
Nor I never come on a belt of sand
 But my home is there.
And along the sky the line of the Downs
 So noble and so bare.

A lost thing could I never find,
 Nor a broken thing mend:
And I fear I shall be all alone
 When I get towards the end.
Who will there be to comfort me
 Or who will be my friend?

I will gather and carefully make my friends
 Of the men of the Sussex Weald;
They watch the stars from silent folds,
 They stiffly plough the field.
By them and the God of the South Country
 My poor soul shall be healed.

If I ever become a rich man,
 Or if ever I grow to be old,
I will build a house with deep thatch
 To shelter me from the cold,
And there shall the Sussex songs be sung
 And the story of Sussex told.

I will hold my house in the high wood
 Within a walk of the sea,
And the men that were boys when I was a boy
 Shall sit and drink with me.

 It is December in Wicklow:
Alders dripping, birches
Inheriting the last light,
The ash tree cold to look at.

A comet that was lost
Should be visible at sunset,
Those million tons of light
Like a glimmer of haws and rose-hips,

And I sometimes see a falling star.
If I could come on meteorite!
Instead I walk through damp leaves,
Husks, the spent flukes of autumn,

Imagining a hero
On some muddy compound,
His gift like a slingstone
Whirled for the desperate.

How did I end up like this?
I often think of my friends'
Beautiful prismatic counselling
And the anvil brains of some who hate me

As I sit weighing and weighing
My responsible tristia.
For what? For the ear? For the people?
For what is said behind-backs?

Rain comes down through the alders,
Its low conductive voices
Mutter about let-downs and erosions
And yet each drop recalls

The diamond absolutes.
I am neither internee nor informer;
An inner ?migr?, grown long-haired
And thoughtful; a wood-kerne

Escaped from the massacre,
Taking protective colouring
From bole and bark, feeling
Every wind that blows;

Who, blowing up these sparks
For their meagre heat, have missed
The once-in-a-lifetime portent,
The comet's pulsing rose.

 "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.

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,
Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;
And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke,
Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
They saw the gleaming river seaward flow
From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops,
Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,
Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops, 
Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse. 

The charmed sunset linger'd low adown
In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale
Was seen far inland, and the yellow down
Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale
And meadow, set with slender galingale;
A land where all things always seem'd the same!
And round about the keel with faces pale,
Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,
The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,
Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave
To each, but whoso did receive of them,
And taste, to him the gushing of the wave
Far far away did seem to mourn and rave
On alien shores; and if his fellow spake,
His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;
And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake,
And music in his ears his beating heart did make.

They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
Between the sun and moon upon the shore;
And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore
Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar,
Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
Then some one said, "We will return no more";
And all at once they sang, "Our island home
Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam."CHORIC SONGI

There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
Here are cool mosses deep, 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep,
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep."II

Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness,
And utterly consumed with sharp distress,
While all things else have rest from weariness?
All things have rest: why should we toil alone,
We only toil, who are the first of things,
And make perpetual moan,
Still from one sorrow to another thrown:
Nor ever fold our wings,
And cease from wanderings,
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm;
Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,
"There is no joy but calm!"
Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?III

Lo! in the middle of the wood,
The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud
With winds upon the branch, and there
Grows green and broad, and takes no care,
Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon
Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow
Falls, and floats adown the air.
Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light,
The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,
Drops in a silent autumn night.
All its allotted length of days
The flower ripens in its place,
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.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.V

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,
With half-shut eyes ever to seem
Falling asleep in a half-dream!
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light,
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height;
To hear each other's whisper'd speech;
Eating the Lotos day by day,
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach,
And tender curving lines of creamy spray;
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly
To the influence of mild-minded melancholy;
To muse and brood and live again in memory,
With those old faces of our infancy
Heap'd over with a mound of grass,
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass!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.VII


But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly,
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly)
With half-dropt eyelid still,
Beneath a heaven dark and holy,
To watch the long bright river drawing slowly
His waters from the purple hill--
To hear the dewy echoes calling
From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine--
To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling
Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine!
Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine,
Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine.VIII


The Lotos blooms below the barren peak:
The Lotos blows by every winding creek:
All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone:
Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone
Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown.
We have had enough of action, and of motion we,
Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free,
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea.
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind,
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined
On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind.
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd
Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd
Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world:
Where they smile in secret, looking over wasted lands,
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands,
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands.
But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong,
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong;
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil,
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil,
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil;
Till they perish and they suffer--some, 'tis whisper'd--down in hell
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell,
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel.
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore
Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar;
O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more.Credits and CopyrightTogether with the editors, the Department ofEnglish (University of Toronto), and the University of Toronto Press,the following individuals share copyright for the work that wentinto this edition:Screen Design (Electronic Edition): Sian Meikle (University ofToronto Library)Scanning: Sharine Leung (Centre for Computing in the Humanities) 





Added: Mar 11 2005 | Viewed: 581 times | Comments (0) 



Information about The Lotos-eaters 
Poet: Alfred Lord Tennyson 
Poem: The Lotos-eaters 





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The Lotos-eaters 

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 So long as 'neath the Kalka hills
 The tonga-horn shall ring,
So long as down the Solon dip
 The hard-held ponies swing,
So long as Tara Devi sees
 The lights of Simla town,
So long as Pleasure calls us up,
 Or Duty drivese us down,
 If you love me as I love you
 What pair so happy as we two?

So long as Aces take the King,
 Or backers take the bet,
So long as debt leads men to wed,
 Or marriage leads to debt,
So long as little luncheons, Love,
 And scandal hold their vogue,
While there is sport at Annandale
 Or whisky at Jutogh,
 If you love me as I love you
 What knife can cut our love in two?

So long as down the rocking floor
 The raving polka spins,
So long as Kitchen Lancers spur
 The maddened violins,
So long as through the whirling smoke
 We hear the oft-told tale --
"Twelve hundred in the Lotteries,"
 And Whatshername for sale?
 If you love me as I love you
 We'll play the game and win it too.

So long as Lust or Lucre tempt
 Straight riders from the course,
So long as with each drink we pour
 Black brewage of Remorse,
So long as those unloaded guns
 We keep beside the bed,
Blow off, by obvious accident,
 The lucky owner's head,
 If you love me as I love you
 What can Life kill of Death undo?

So long as Death 'twixt dance and dance
 Chills best and bravest blood,
And drops the reckless rider down
 The rotten, rain-soaked khud,
So long as rumours from the North
 Make loving wives afraid,
So long as Burma takes the boy
 Or typhoid kills the maid,
 If you love me as I love you
 What knife can cut our love in two?

By all that lights our daily life
 Or works our lifelong woe,
From Boileaugunge to Simla Downs
 And those grim glades below,
Where, heedless of the flying hoof
 And clamour overhead,
Sleep, with the grey langur for guard
 Our very scornful Dead,
 If you love me as I love you
 All Earth is servant to us two!

By Docket, Billetdoux, and File,
 By Mountain, Cliff, and Fir,
By Fan and Sword and Office-box,
 By Corset, Plume, and Spur
By Riot, Revel, Waltz, and War,
 By Women, Work, and Bills,
By all the life that fizzes in
 The everlasting Hills,
 If you love me as I love you
 What pair so happy as we two?

THERE is sweet music here that softer falls 
Than petals from blown roses on the grass, 
Or night-dews on still waters between walls 
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; 
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, 5 
Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes; 
Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. 
Here are cool mosses deep, 
And thro' the moss the ivies creep, 
And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, 10 
And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. 

Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, 
And utterly consumed with sharp distress, 
While all things else have rest from weariness? 
All things have rest: why should we toil alone, 15 
We only toil, who are the first of things, 
And make perpetual moan, 
Still from one sorrow to another thrown: 
Nor ever fold our wings, 
And cease from wanderings, 20 
Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; 
Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, 
'There is no joy but calm!'¡ª 
Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? 

Lo! in the middle of the wood, 25 
The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud 
With winds upon the branch, and there 
Grows green and broad, and takes no care, 
Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon 
Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow 30 
Falls, and floats adown the air. 
Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light, 
The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, 
Drops in a silent autumn night. 
All its allotted length of days, 35 
The flower ripens in its place, 
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, 
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil. 

Hateful is the dark-blue sky, 
Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. 40 
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? 45 
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? 50 
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. 

How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, 
With half-shut eyes ever to seem 55 
Falling asleep in a half-dream! 
To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, 
Which will not leave the myrrh-bush on the height; 
To hear each other's whisper'd speech; 
Eating the Lotos day by day, 60 
To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, 
And tender curving lines of creamy spray; 
To lend our hearts and spirits wholly 
To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; 
To muse and brood and live again in memory, 65 
With those old faces of our infancy 
Heap'd over with a mound of grass, 
Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass! 

Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, 
And dear the last embraces of our wives 70 
And their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd change; 
For surely now our household hearts 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 75 
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. 80 
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 ag¨¨d breath, 85 
Sore task to hearts worn out with many wars 
And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. 

But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, 
How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) 
With half-dropt eyelids still, 90 
Beneath a heaven dark and holy, 
To watch the long bright river drawing slowly 
His waters from the purple hill¡ª 
To hear the dewy echoes calling 
From cave to cave thro' the thick-twin¨¨d vine¡ª 95 
To watch the emerald-colour'd water falling 
Thro' many a wov'n acanthus-wreath divine! 
Only to hear and see the far-off sparkling brine, 
Only to hear were sweet, stretch'd out beneath the pine. 

The Lotos blooms below the barren peak: 100 
The Lotos blows by every winding creek: 
All day the wind breathes low with mellower tone: 
Thro' every hollow cave and alley lone 
Round and round the spicy downs the yellow Lotos-dust is blown. 
We have had enough of action, and of motion we, 105 
Roll'd to starboard, roll'd to larboard, when the surge was seething free, 
Where the wallowing monster spouted his foam-fountains in the sea. 
Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, 
In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie relined 
On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. 110 
For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurl'd 
Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curl'd 
Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world: 
Where the smile in secret, looking over wasted lands, 
Blight and famine, plague and earthquake, roaring deeps and fiery sands, 115 
Clanging fights, and flaming towns, and sinking ships, and praying hands. 
But they smile, they find a music centred in a doleful song 
Steaming up, a lamentation and an ancient tale of wrong, 
Like a tale of little meaning tho' the words are strong; 
Chanted from an ill-used race of men that cleave the soil, 120 
Sow the seed, and reap the harvest with enduring toil, 
Storing yearly little dues of wheat, and wine and oil; 
Till they perish and they suffer¡ªsome, 'tis whisper'd¡ªdown in hell 
Suffer endless anguish, others in Elysian valleys dwell, 
Resting weary limbs at last on beds of asphodel. 125 
Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore 
Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; 
O rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. 

 My friend went to the piano; spun the stool 
A little higher; left his pipe to cool; 
Picked up a fat green volume from the chest; 
And propped it open. 
Whitely without rest, 
His fingers swept the keys that flashed like swords, 
. . . And to the brute drums of barbarian hordes, 
Roaring and thunderous and weapon-bare, 
An army stormed the bastions of the air! 
Dreadful with banners, fire to slay and parch, 
Marching together as the lightnings march, 
And swift as storm-clouds. Brazen helms and cars 
Clanged to a fierce resurgence of old wars 
Above the screaming horns. In state they passed, 
Trampling and splendid on and sought the vast -- 
Rending the darkness like a leaping knife, 
The flame, the noble pageant of our life! 
The burning seal that stamps man's high indenture 
To vain attempt and most forlorn adventure; 
Romance, and purple seas, and toppling towns, 
And the wind's valiance crying o'er the downs; 
That nerves the silly hand, the feeble brain, 
From the loose net of words to deeds again 
And to all courage! Perilous and sharp 
The last chord shook me as wind shakes a harp! 
. . . And my friend swung round on his stool, and from gods we were men, 
"How pretty!" we said; and went on with our talk again.

 Summer pleasures they are gone like to visions every one
And the cloudy days of autumn and of winter cometh on
I tried to call them back but unbidden they are gone
Far away from heart and eye and for ever far away
Dear heart and can it be that such raptures meet decay
I thought them all eternal when by Langley Bush I lay
I thought them joys eternal when I used to shout and play
On its bank at 'clink and bandy' 'chock' and 'taw' and
 ducking stone
Where silence sitteth now on the wild heath as her own
Like a ruin of the past all alone


When I used to lie and sing by old eastwells boiling spring
When I used to tie the willow boughs together for a 'swing'
And fish with crooked pins and thread and never catch a
 thing
With heart just like a feather- now as heavy as a stone
When beneath old lea close oak I the bottom branches broke
To make our harvest cart like so many working folk
And then to cut a straw at the brook to have a soak
O I never dreamed of parting or that trouble had a sting
Or that pleasures like a flock of birds would ever take to
 wing
Leaving nothing but a little naked spring


When jumping time away on old cross berry way
And eating awes like sugar plumbs ere they had lost the may
And skipping like a leveret before the peep of day
On the rolly polly up and downs of pleasant swordy well
When in round oaks narrow lane as the south got black again
We sought the hollow ash that was shelter from the rain
With our pockets full of peas we had stolen from the grain
How delicious was the dinner time on such a showry day
O words are poor receipts for what time hath stole away
The ancient pulpit trees and the play


When for school oer 'little field' with its brook and wooden
 brig
Where I swaggered like a man though I was not half so big
While I held my little plough though twas but a willow twig
And drove my team along made of nothing but a name
'Gee hep' and 'hoit' and 'woi'- O I never call to mind
These pleasant names of places but I leave a sigh behind
While I see the little mouldywharps hang sweeing to the wind
On the only aged willow that in all the field remains
And nature hides her face where theyre sweeing in their
 chains
And in a silent murmuring complains


Here was commons for the hills where they seek for
 freedom still
Though every commons gone and though traps are set to kill
The little homeless miners- O it turns my bosom chill
When I think of old 'sneap green' puddocks nook and hilly
 snow
Where bramble bushes grew and the daisy gemmed in dew
And the hills of silken grass like to cushions to the view
When we threw the pissmire crumbs when we's nothing
 else to do
All leveled like a desert by the never weary plough
All vanished like the sun where that cloud is passing now
All settled here for ever on its brow


I never thought that joys would run away from boys
Or that boys would change their minds and forsake such
 summer joys
But alack I never dreamed that the world had other toys
To petrify first feelings like the fable into stone
Till I found the pleasure past and a winter come at last
Then the fields were sudden bare and the sky got overcast
And boyhoods pleasing haunts like a blossom in the blast
Was shrivelled to a withered weed and trampled down and
 done
Till vanished was the morning spring and set that summer
 sun
And winter fought her battle strife and won


By Langley bush I roam but the bush hath left its hill
On cowper green I stray tis a desert strange and chill
And spreading lea close oak ere decay had penned its will
To the axe of the spoiler and self interest fell a prey
And cross berry way and old round oaks narrow lane
With its hollow trees like pulpits I shall never see again
Inclosure like a Buonaparte let not a thing remain
It levelled every bush and tree and levelled every hill
And hung the moles for traitors - though the brook is
 running still
It runs a naked brook cold and chill


O had I known as then joy had left the paths of men
I had watched her night and day besure and never slept agen
And when she turned to go O I'd caught her mantle then
And wooed her like a lover by my lonely side to stay
Aye knelt and worshipped on as love in beautys bower
And clung upon her smiles as a bee upon her flower
And gave her heart my poesys all cropt in a sunny hour
As keepsakes and pledges to fade away
But love never heeded to treasure up the may
So it went the comon road with decay