Lord Alfred Tennyson

"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 charméd 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."

ULYSSES

By - Tennyson

   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 honour'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 forever 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 fulfil
   This labour, 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 honour 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.

(Sent by Rahul Misra )