Ulysses - Alfred Lord Tennyson, 1842
"Ulysses" was written in 1833 (but not published until 1842) by Alfred Lord Tennyson, the future Poet Laureate of Great Britain. The poem takes the form of a dramatic monologue spoken by Ulysses, a character who also appears in Homer's Greek epic The Odyssey and Dante's Italian epic the Inferno (Ulysses is the Latinized name of Odysseus). In The Odyssey, Ulysses/Odysseus struggles to return home, but in Tennyson's "Ulysses," an aged Ulysses is frustrated with domestic life and yearns to set sail again and continue exploring the world. Dante seems to condemn Ulysses's recklessness as an explorer, but in Tennyson's poem, there is nobility and heroism in Ulysses' boundless curiosity and undaunted spirit.
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.
Ulysses expresses frustration at how dull and pointless his life now seems as king of Ithaca, trapped at home on the rocky island of Ithaca. His wife is old, and he must spend his time enforcing imperfect laws as he attempts to govern people he considers stupid and uncivilized. In Ulysses's eyes, all his people do is try to store up wealth, sleep, and eat. They have no conception of who Ulysses really is or what his life has been like. Ulysses still yearns to travel the world like he used to do. As long as he's alive, he doesn't want to stop doing the things that, in his eyes, make life worth living. He found joy, he claims, in every moment he spent traveling, even at the times when he was suffering. He found joy both when he was with his faithful crew members and when he was by himself; both when he was on land and when he was sailing the sea through rainstorms. He has become famous throughout the world as an explorer who was continually traveling and yearning to know more. Ulysses reflects that he has seen and learned a great deal about all the places where people live, about their lifestyles, cultures, and ways of governing themselves. Everywhere he went, he was shown honor and respect. Ulysses also found joy fighting alongside his fellow soldiers, men he honored and respected, when he fought in battles far from home in the Trojan War. Ulysses feels that each person and place he has encountered has been changed by the encounter, as has he himself. But all these experiences have not satisfied his desire for travel; rather, each encounter has only whetted his appetite to see more of the world. No matter how much of the world he sees, there is always still more to see, and it is these unseen regions that he always tries to pursue. Ulysses exclaims that it is boring and unsatisfying to stay in one place and stop doing the activities that defined your life, comparing himself to a sword that has been allowed to rust uselessly away rather than being used gloriously in battle. Merely being alive doesn't mean you are truly living. Ulysses feels that multiple lifetimes would still have been too little time to do all he wishes to do, and he is almost at the end of the one lifetime he has. Still, every hour that he has left to live before he dies has the potential to bring new opportunities for action. It would be disgraceful, he feels, to sit tight at home and just try to eat and stay alive for a few more years, when, even as an old man, his greatest desire is still to explore the world and keep learning more. He wants to go beyond the limits of what humans have seen and known, the way a shooting star seems to go beyond the horizon when it falls and disappears from sight.
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.
Ulysses then starts to describe his son, Telemachus, who will inherit Ulysses's role as ruler of the island when Ulysses dies. Ulysses affirms that he loves his son, who is conscientious and thoughtful about how he will best carry out his responsibilities as ruler. With patience and judgement, Telemachus will work to civilize the fierce, wild people of Ithaca and make them more gentle, and gradually teach them to devote their lives to productive civic activities. Ulysses cannot find any faults in Telemachus; he devotes his life to the responsibilities of his role, he pays proper respect to his people and his parents, and after his father dies, he will continue offering appropriate sacrifices to the gods that Ulysses most honored. Telemachus is well suited for the role of ruler—just as Ulysses is well suited for a different role, the role of explorer.
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.
Ulysses looks out towards the port, where the wind is blowing in the sails of his ship and where he can see the wide, dark sea. He now addresses his former crew, the men who worked alongside him and explored the world and gained new knowledge with him. He reminds them that they always accepted joyfully whatever their travels would bring, whether trouble or good luck, and proudly faced every obstacle with resolution and bravery. Ulysses then acknowledges that both he and they have grown older, but insists that even as old men, they can still work do hard work and earn respect. Soon they will die and their chance to do great deeds will be over; but before they die, they can still accomplish something heroic, something fitting for men that once battled the gods. The people of Ithaca are beginning to light lamps in their homes; night is falling; the moon is rising in the sky; the waves of the sea are murmuring almost as if they are speaking to Ulysses. Ulysses urges his crew, as his friends, to join him on one last voyage—even now, they're not too old to explore some unknown region of the world. He invites them to board a ship, push away from shore, and man the oars so they can beat the waves; because Ulysses still has the goal of sailing past the horizon, as far as he can go, before he ultimately dies. He acknowledges that the waves may sink their ship; but they may also find their way to the place where the souls of the blessed go after death. There, they might even see their old companion, the accomplished warrior Achilles. Many of their heroic qualities have been diminished by old age, but they haven't been lost completely. They don't have the same strength or physical prowess they possessed as younger men fighting epic, world-changing battles; but inside, Ulysses declares, they are ultimately the same men they always were. Their minds and hearts are still brave and composed in the face of danger and obstacles. Their bodies have been weakened by old age, something all human beings are destined to face, but their spirits are as strong as ever. They remain determined to work hard, to pursue their goals and accomplish them, and to never give up.
Word Notes:
1. The "Hyades" are a group of stars in the constellation Taurus often associated with rain; their rising in the sky generally coincides with the rainy season. Here they are presented as agitators of the sea.
2. The "baths of all the western stars" refers to the outer ocean or river that the Greeks believed surrounded the (flat) earth; they thought the stars descended into it. Ulysses wants to sail beyond the horizon of the known universe.
3. The "happy isles" refers to the Islands of the Blessed, located in the western ocean at the end of the earth, a place where Greek heroes like Achilles enjoyed perpetual summer after they died.
The Last Ride Together - Robert Browning, 1855
The Last Ride Together is a dramatic monologue written by the English poet and playwright Robert Browning, one of the foremost Victorian poets. ‘The Last Ride Together’ was first published in 1855 in Volume I of a collection of Browning’s poems titled, ‘Men and Women’. Unsuccessful in love, the speaker in the poem asks his mistress for one last ride with him. Though many readers take it as a love poem, actually it shows the philosophical revelation of the poet on love and life, success and failure. The poet’s thoughts are expressed in verses as the lovers begin on the ride. It is a poem of robust optimism.
'The Last Ride Together', the title is often interpreted as a metaphor for the sexual act. It is an obviously suggestive title for the modern reader, conscious of Freudian psychology, but it was not the case back in Victorian times. Victorian people rode horses and went riding together which was seen as a romantic and appropriate thing for lovers to do. One cannot say with any certainty that Robert Browning intended his poem to convey a highly charged sexual meaning.
I said---Then, dearest, since 'tis so,
Since now at length my fate I know,
Since nothing all my love avails,
Since all, my life seemed meant for, fails,
Since this was written and needs must be---
My whole heart rises up to bless
Your name in pride and thankfulness!
Take back the hope you gave,---I claim
---Only a memory of the same,
---And this beside, if you will not blame,
Your leave for one more last ride with me.
The poem begins with the narrator gracefully accepting that his relationship with his beloved is over. Resigning himself to the fact that “this was written and needs must be”, the narrator feels no bitterness or resentment for his beloved. His “whole heart rises up to bless” her name and all he asks for is her consent to have one last ride together.
My mistress bent that brow of hers;
Those deep dark eyes where pride demurs
When pity would be softening through,
Fixed me, a breathing-while or two,
With life or death in the balance: right!
The blood replenished me again;
My last thought was at least not vain:
I and my mistress, side by side
Shall be together, breathe and ride,
So, one day more am I deified.
Who knows but the world may end tonight?
Now the lover is waiting for his mistress’s answer. Her deep, dark eyes which are lingering with pride are full of pity for the lover. Her expression fixes him for a moment (breathing-while or two) between life and death as he waits for her answer. When his beloved finally accedes to his request after a lot of hesitation and careful thought, the narrator is overjoyed because his “last thought was at least not vain”. The thought of spending one day more in the company of his beloved, breathing and riding together, makes him feel ‘deified’. The narrator even entertains the hope that ‘the world may end tonight’ in which case his happiness will become eternal as he will forever be with his beloved.
Hush! if you saw some western cloud
All billowy-bosomed, over-bowed
By many benedictions---sun's
And moon's and evening-star's at once---
And so, you, looking and loving best,
Conscious grew, your passion drew
Cloud, sunset, moonrise, star-shine too,
Down on you, near and yet more near,
Till flesh must fade for heaven was here!---
Thus leant she and lingered---joy and fear!
Thus lay she a moment on my breast.
When his beloved leans against his breast for a moment just before commencing on the last ride, the narrator experiences not just ‘joy and fear’ but heavenly ecstasy. The kind of bliss he feels is similar to that which one feels on seeing a swelling cloud in the western evening sky blessed by the light of the setting sun, moon and the evening stars; a kind of spiritual bliss that makes one feel that ‘flesh must fade for heaven was here’.
Then we began to ride. My soul
Smoothed itself out, a long-cramped scroll
Freshening and fluttering in the wind.
Past hopes already lay behind.
What need to strive with a life awry?
Had I said that, had I done this,
So might I gain, so might I miss.
Might she have loved me? just as well
She might have hated, who can tell!
Where had I been now if the worst befell?
And here we are riding, she and I.
As the two finally begin their ride, the narrator’s soul which was so long been cramped with grief due to his beloved’s rejection opens out and expands with joy, ‘freshening and fluttering in the wind’. The narrator categorically dismisses his hope of attaining the lady’s love as a thing of the past. He feels that it will serve no purpose to worry about whether he might have changed the course of things through a different approach towards his relationship with his beloved so that she would have loved him. But she could have hated him just as well. So he thinks it is useless to ponder over what could have happened had he taken a different approach. Then he asks himself what if the worst had happened - that the mistress not granting his prayer for the last ride? So he consoles himself saying that he should rather be satisfied because at least he is able to have the last ride with his mistress.
Fail I alone, in words and deeds?
Why, all men strive and who succeeds?
We rode; it seemed my spirit flew,
Saw other regions, cities new,
As the world rushed by on either side.
I thought,---All labour, yet no less
Bear up beneath their unsuccess.
Look at the end of work, contrast
The petty done, the undone vast,
This present of theirs with the hopeful past!
I hoped she would love me; here we ride.
The narrator goes on to console himself with the thought that he is not alone in having tried and failed in achieving his life’s purpose. He argues that everyone ‘labours’ for success, yet most face failures. At the end of work, we often see people achieve much less than what they had hoped for. The vast undone works contrast sharply with the small done. We see people’s ordinary present contrasting with their high-flying hopes in the past. For instance, the lover says, previously he had hoped to be loved by his mistress, but now he only has the fortune of the last ride together. Thus, the speaker tries to justify his failure through self-deception.
What hand and brain went ever paired?
What heart alike conceived and dared?
What act proved all its thought had been?
What will but felt the fleshly screen?
We ride and I see her bosom heave.
There's many a crown for who can reach,
Ten lines, a statesman's life in each!
The flag stuck on a heap of bones,
A soldier's doing! what atones?
They scratch his name on the Abbey-stones.
My riding is better, by their leave.
Continuing to reflect on the fate of mankind, the narrator comments on how thought and deed can never be equally balanced because the hands are never able to execute every idea that the brain thinks of. He feels that he is better off than many others because great effort rarely meets with complete success. A statesman’s devotion to his country gets the inadequate reward of a short obituary while a brave soldier who sacrifices his life for his country receives the petty reward of a “flag stuck on a heap of bones” and an epitaph on "Abbey-stones". The lover feels that he is much better off than these men because his “riding is better”.
What does it all mean, poet? Well,
Your brains beat into rhythm, you tell
What we felt only; you expressed
You hold things beautiful the best,
And pace them in rhyme so, side by side.
'Tis something, nay 'tis much: but then,
Have you yourself what's best for men?
Are you---poor, sick, old ere your time---
Nearer one whit your own sublime
Than we who never have turned a rhyme?
Sing, riding's a joy! For me, I ride.
He is also better off than a poet who may have the ability to express beautiful things in melodious and rhythmic language but never succeeds in achieving the ideals that he considers best for other men. He ends up “poor, sick, old ere your time” and while a poet can only describe through his imagination a lover’s joy in riding with his beloved, the narrator actually experiences it.
And you, great sculptor---so, you gave
A score of years to Art, her slave,
And that's your Venus, whence we turn
To yonder girl that fords the burn!
You acquiesce, and shall I repine?
What, man of music, you grown grey
With notes and nothing else to say,
Is this your sole praise from a friend,
"Greatly his opera's strains intend,
"Put in music we know how fashions end!''
I gave my youth; but we ride, in fine.
The narrator also feels that he is more fortunate than a sculptor or a musician. A sculptor may spend twenty long years in making a beautiful statue of Venus, the Greek goddess of love and beauty. While people will praise it, they will turn away from it the moment they see “yonder girl that fords the burn”. To common people like the lover, a mortal girl with flesh and blood holds more charm than the sculptor’s creation. The musician too, is unsuccessful. He grows old composing music but the only praise he gets is that his opera music sounds very nice. His music will not be admired forever because tastes in music change with time. The narrator is more fortunate because while he too, devoted his youth to courting his beloved, he has won the reward of the pleasure of riding in her company.
Who knows what's fit for us? Had fate
Proposed bliss here should sublimate
My being --- had I signed the bond --- Still one must lead some life beyond,
Have a bliss to die with, dim-descried.
This foot once planted on the goal,
This glory-garland round my soul,
Could I descry such? Try and test!
I sink back shuddering from the quest.
Earth being so good, would heaven seem best?
Now, heaven and she are beyond this ride.
In the next stanza, with some obscurity, the speaker implies a kind of metaphysical reasoning: achieving everything in this life would leave nothing for the next life. The lover says that it is difficult to know what is best for men. But every man should keep something for the other life - “have a bliss to die with”. If the speaker gets his desires all fulfilled and enjoys supreme bliss in this worldly life, he would not find joy in heaven (Earth being so good, would heaven seem best?). By having this ride, he feels he has achieved enough and won the garland of victory for now. His failure in love here means success in the other world. He truly believes that he would reunite with his mistress again in heaven. His ride is joyful but “heaven and she are beyond this ride.”
And yet---she has not spoke so long!
What if heaven be that, fair and strong
At life's best, with our eyes upturned
Whither life's flower is first discerned,
We, fixed so, ever should so abide?
What if we still ride on, we two
With life for ever old yet new,
Changed not in kind but in degree,
The instant made eternity,---
And heaven just prove that I and she
Ride, ride together, for ever ride?
The lover now comes out of his own ruminations and observes his mistress. He notes that she has not spoken a word yet. However, her company has been a heavenly bliss for him. The thought now strikes the lover’s mind that heaven is nothing but the realisation of one’s highest hopes and aspirations. Man has always looked upwards in search of heaven in the sky. But at the present moment, his beloved and he, ‘fair and strong’, are riding together and his riding with his mistress is heavenly enough for him on this earth. The lover feels that he need not go to heaven if he continues to ride like this with his beloved. He wishes that this very moment could become an eternity so the last ride together can be for ever and ever. That way, this earth would prove to be a heaven for him.
The Darkling Thrush - Thomas Hardy, 1900
Thomas Hardy's "The Darkling Thrush" was originally called “By the Century's Deathbed” and was first printed on 29 December of that year. "A deleted 1899 on the manuscript suggested he had written it a year before," Claire Tomalin tells us in her biography, Thomas Hardy: The Time-Torn Man. Probably giving way to his guarded optimism about what the new age would bring, Hardy renamed the piece to the more cheery title as we know today — 'The Darkling Thrush'. The poem deals with despair and death of the century. And the winter landscape makes things even more dismal. Thankfully, not all is doom and gloom. There is another focal point of this poem—the Thrush: a complete antithesis (contrast) to what everything else in the poem represents. The poem is about one person’s reaction to this change. It is about hope in the face of despair, about endings and cautious beginnings.
I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.
In the first stanza, we are introduced to the poet, in the first person, ‘I’. The poet paints a sombre picture of the world. He leans upon a woodland gate and views the land around him. The gate also suggests a doorway into a new place, the new century. The bitter hopelessness of a cold winter evening is stressed by the imagery: ‘Frost’, ‘spectre-gray’, ‘dregs’, desolate’, ‘weakening’, ‘broken’ and ‘haunted’. Frost is described as ‘specter–grey’ or ghost-like grey. The Winter’s dregs—the fallen snow and heavy fog—are making the twilight/ dusk (the weakening eye of the day, or the setting sun) look desolate. And the climbing plants - the creepers, dead for winter, have left behind only their climbing stems or bine stems. They add to the gloominess as the poem compares them to the simile of strings of broken lyres (a musical instrument) notching the sky. This comparison is also important in suggesting the lack of music or happiness for that matter. The ‘strings of broken lyres’ is an image of disharmony, and perhaps points to a lack of joy in the surrounding. Even the people who were nearby, have gone home to seek fire. There seems to be no vibrancy in life or colour.
The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.
Winter in the Northern Hemisphere is also the end of the year, and here it becomes all the more meaningful, as the end of the year in this case also marks the end of the century. This is why the century is personified as a corpse; the harsh winter landscape (its sharp features) defining its wasted body. The ‘cloudy canopy’ or sky covers the century’s tomb (crypt) and the sad wind becomes its death-lament. The speaker suggests that the very life force is ‘shrunken hard and dry’, and every spirit upon earth seems fervourless.
At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.
In the third stanza, at the nadir of the poem, the sudden hurling out of its song by a thrush might be seen as the injection of optimism into the poem. The poet calls the thrush’s melody a ‘full-hearted evensong’ — a service of evening prayers in the Christian Church. The choice of bird here is what makes Hardy one of the finest poets: he chooses an old, feeble, lean thrush, with its feathers disarranged by the wind (blast-beruffled), not the nightingale of Miltonic or Romantic tradition. It is an ordinary indigenous song-thrush, but one that is ‘blast-beruffled’: it has survived the strong winter winds, that the poet had hitherto painted as brutal and uncooperative. The ‘aged’ and ‘frail’ thrush is, perhaps facing its own imminent end, and yet it flings its soul ecstatically upon the darkening evening. The resultant picture of an ordinary, weather-beaten, thrush rising from the depths of the winter winds and singing a beautiful song, is one of hope. Though the title of the poem suggested that it was all about a thrush, it took two and a half stanzas to get to the first mention of the bird. But still, the thrush and its song seem to overcome the initial melancholy that the atmosphere brought even to the readers.
So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.
In the final stanza, the idea of faith is conveyed through the thrush’s ‘carolings’—reminiscent of Christmas carols. The ‘ecstatic sound’ of the thrush is in complete contrast to such a hopeless situation. The poet cannot think of any earthly (terrestrial) event or cause, near or far away that could be responsible for it. Although Hardy can see no cause for joy, he can hope, that the thrush can see something he himself is unable to perceive. Thus, the very sound of the thrush and its defiance of the prevailing moods show that life may be threatened, its physical existence at risk, but its spirit is indomitable and cannot be crushed.
The Wild Swans at Coole - William Butler Yeats, 1917
Yeats wrote this poem in 1916, when he was 51 years of age. Coole Park, in Galway was the home of Lady Gregory, Yeats' friend and patron (patron – a wealthy or influential supporter of an artist or writer). In the poem, he reflects on how his life has changed since he was a younger man and walked ''with a lighter tread''. He was influenced by the Irish revolutionary Maud Gonne. Yeats passionately loved her and asked her to marry him several times but she always refused and married someone else in 1903. In 1916, Yeats' love, Maud Gonne was widowed. Yeats proposed her for marriage once again. Once again she refused. Yeats himself didn't marry until 1917, aged 51. The poem itself subtly alludes to lost love, and many critics also point to the timing of the poem's composition—shortly before the end of World War I, during the Irish struggle for independence from the British—as being highly significant.
The trees are in their autumn beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the stones
Are nine-and-fifty swans.
Yeats begins the poem by describing the beauty of Coole Park in the autumn. Details, such as the brimming water and the dry woodland paths bring this peaceful scene to life. The brimming water of the lake contrasts with the dry paths. It is as if the lake and its occupants represent life and growth, while the land – where Yeats stands – is barren. Autumn is linked with slowing down and dying. Does Yeats feel that, at fifty one, he is reaching the autumn years of his life? The swans are counted; there are ''nine-and-fifty'' of them. Swans mate for life, so why is there an odd number? Is one of them, like Yeats, alone?
The nineteenth autumn has come upon me
Since I first made my count;
I saw, before I had well finished,
All suddenly mount
And scatter wheeling in great broken rings
Upon their clamorous wings.
In the second stanza, Yeats becomes far more personal as he recalls that it is nineteen years since he first counted these swans. Although logic tells us that these are unlikely to be the same swans, we suspend disbelief and accept that this is just an artistic construct. Suddenly, before Yeats can finish his counting, all the swans rise into the air, "wheeling in great broken rings/ upon their clamorous wings". The onomatopoeic word ''clamorous'' effectively captures the clapping and beating of the swans' wings as they oar into the air. They form a ring – a symbol of eternity – and perhaps this reminds Yeats that while he might change, the swans remain the same, and even make the same patterns in the sky every year.
I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
All's changed since I, hearing at twilight,
The first time on this shore,
The bell-beat of their wings above my head,
Trod with a lighter tread.
The poet reflects how everything in his life has changed since he first looked at the swans on this lake. ''All's changed''. He is not as young or as carefree as he was when he ''Trod with a lighter tread''. His ''heart is sore'' as he thinks of the loss of his youth and of his failed romances. The description of the swans' wings in flight, ''The bell-beat of their wings'' is particularly effective here. The alliteration in ''bell-beat'' captures and reinforces the steady beat of the birds' huge wings as they fly above his head.
Unwearied still, lover by lover,
They paddle in the cold
Companionable streams or climb the air;
Their hearts have not grown old;
Passion or conquest, wander where they will,
Attend upon them still.
There is a note of envy in the fourth stanza as Yeats watches the bird ''Unwearied still, lover by lover,'' paddling together in the ''Companionable streams''. The streams may be cold, but the swans have one another. They are united, and time does not seem to touch them. ''Their hearts have not grown old''. Wherever they go, ''Passion or conquest'' will follow them. This seems to be in contrast to Yeats' own life. He implies that he is old and tired and heartbroken.
But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?
The poem ends with Yeats wondering where the swans will go next to ''Delight men's eyes''. Perhaps he means that they, unchanged, will continue to bring pleasure to others who stand as he does now, watching them glide once more on the still water. Maybe they will be somewhere else, but they will remain unchanged, or maybe they will be here, but the poet will not be alive to see them. The poem is set in autumn, and winter will inevitably follow, for the poet. The swans seem untouched by everything and will continue to ''drift on the still water''. Yeats may be thinking of his creative life or his love life, or both, when he reflects on the changes that time has wrought. The swans are unchanging, content, almost immortal. He is none of these things.
Strange Meeting - Wilfred Owen, 1919
“Strange Meeting” was written by the British poet Wilfred Owen. A soldier in the First World War, Owen wrote “Strange Meeting” sometime during 1918 while serving on the Western Front (though the poem was not published until 1919, after Owen had been killed in battle). The poem's speaker, who is also a solider, has descended to “Hell.” There, he meets a soldier from the opposing army—who reveals at the end of the poem that the speaker was the one who killed him. The poem is deeply pessimistic as it reflects on the shared humanity of these two men and the broader horrors of war. Though the poem suggests that human beings aren't going to stop fighting anytime soon, it also calls for such violence to be replaced by reconciliation and solidarity.
It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
It seemed like I escaped from battle down into a very deep, dark tunnel—a tunnel that had been carved out of the granite bedrock by some enormous wars in the past.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then, as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall,—
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
Even in the tunnel, I found people moaning and suffering. They were either too deeply asleep to be stirred, or they were already dead. Then, as I poked and prodded them, one of the sleepers jumped up and stared at me. He seemed to recognize me—and he pitied me. He lifted his hands sadly, as if he were going to bless me. And I could tell from his lifeless smile that the dark hall in which we stood was Hell itself.
With a thousand fears that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
“Strange friend,” I said, “here is no cause to mourn.”
“None,” said that other, “save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled.
Or, discontent, boil bloody, and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery;
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
You could see all the fear etched into his face—even though none of the blood or violence from the battle up above reached the hall where we stood. You couldn’t hear the artillery firing down there; the guns didn’t make the chimneys in the hall groan. I said to him, “Unfamiliar friend, there’s no reason to be sad down here.” He replied: “No reason except for all the years I'm missing out on, and the loss of hope. You and I had the same hopes. I threw myself into seeking the most beautiful thing in the world, and I'm not talking about physical beauty. This beauty makes fun of time as it steadily passes by. If this beauty is sad, its sadness is so much richer than the sadness you find down here. If I hadn't died, my happiness might have made a lot of other people happy too; and even in my sadness, I would have left something important behind, something that can’t survive down here. I’m talking about truth itself, the truth that no one talks about: the horror of war, war boiled down to its horrifying essence. Since I didn’t get to tell people how horrible war is, people will be happy with the destructive things our armies have done. Or they'll be unhappy, and they'll get so angry that they'll keep fighting and killing each other. They will be as fast as tigers. No one will speak out or disagree with their governments, even though those governments are moving society away from progress rather than towards it. I was full of courage and mystery. I was full of wisdom and expertise. I won't have to watch the world as it moves backwards, marching into cities that, foolishly, don't have fortifications. If the wheels of their armored vehicles were to get clogged with blood, I would go wash them with water from pure wells. I would wash them with truths too profoundly true to be corrupted. I would do everything I possibly could to help—except for fighting, except for taking part in more horrible war. In war, even those who aren't physically hurt suffer from mental trauma.
“I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now. . . .”
“I am the enemy soldier you killed, my friend. I recognized you in the dark: you frowned when you saw me in just the same way as you frowned yesterday, when you killed with me with your bayonet. I tried to fend you off, but my hands were slow and clumsy. Let’s rest now…”
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