Page:Poems - Tennyson (1843) - Volume 1 of 2.djvu/192

 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 aged 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-twined vine— To hear 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.