LORD TENNYSON

But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly,

How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly)

With half-dropt eyelids 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.

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,

�� �