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 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
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
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？
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 blue
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.
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.
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 #CCCCFF dust shut in an urn of brass！
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 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
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 agèd breath
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
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-twinèd 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 blue 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 relined
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 the 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.