Page:Poems - Tennyson (1843) - Volume 1 of 2.djvu/189

 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 yellow 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.