LORD TENNYSON

Thou bring' st the sailor to his wife,

And travelled men from foreign lands ; And letters unto trembling hands;

And, thy dark freight, a vanish'd life.

So bring him : we have idle dreams : This look of quiet flatters thus Our home-bred fancies : O to us,

The fools of habit, sweeter seems

To rest beneath the clover sod,

That takes the sunshine and the rains, Or where the kneeling hamlet drains

The chalice of the grapes of God ;

Than if with thee the roaring wells

Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine; And hands so often clasp'd in mine,

Should toss with tangle and with shells.

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Calm is the morn without a sound, Calm as to suit a calmer grief, And only thro' the faded leaf

The chestnut pattering to the ground:

Calm and deep peace on this high wold,

And on these dews that drench the furze, And all the silvery gossamers

That twinkle into green and gold:

Calm and still light on yon great plain

That sweeps with all its autumn bowers, And crowded farms and lessening towers,

To mingle with the bounding main :

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