Editing "Ulysses" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

'''Ulysses'''<br><br>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;It little profits that an idle king,<br>
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,<br>
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole<br>
Unequal laws unto a savage race,<br>
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.<br>
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink<br>
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd<br>
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those<br>
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when<br>
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades<br>
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;<br>
For always roaming with a hungry heart<br>
Much have I seen and known; cities of men<br>
And manners, climates, councils, governments,<br>
Myself not least, but honour'd of them all;<br>
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,<br>
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.<br>
I am a part of all that I have met;<br>
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'<br>
Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades<br>
For ever and forever when I move.<br>
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,<br>
To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use!<br>
As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life<br>
Were all too little, and of one to me<br>
Little remains: but every hour is saved<br>
From that eternal silence, something more,<br>
A bringer of new things; and vile it were<br>
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,<br>
And this gray spirit yearning in desire<br>
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,<br>
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.<br><br>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;This is my son, mine own Telemachus,<br>
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,---<br>
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil<br>
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild<br>
A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees<br>
Subdue them to the useful and the good.<br>
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere<br>
Of common duties, decent not to fail<br>
In offices of tenderness, and pay<br>
Meet adoration to my household gods,<br>
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.<br><br>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:<br>
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,<br>
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me ---<br>
That ever with a frolic welcome took<br>
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed<br>
Free hearts, free foreheads --- you and I are old;<br>
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;<br>
Death closes all: but something ere the end,<br>
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,<br>
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.<br>
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:<br>
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep<br>
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,<br>
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.<br>
Push off, and sitting well in order smite<br>
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds<br>
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths<br>
Of all the western stars, until I die.<br>
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:<br>
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,<br>
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.<br>
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'<br>
We are not now that strength which in old days<br>
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;<br>
One equal temper of heroic hearts,<br>
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will<br>
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.<br><br>

&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;-- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Cadged from the website: http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/121.html 

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