Envied and Forgotten

Ship tossing on a stormy sea (photo of a photo)
Photo by momboleum

The ship’s sail at full mast as the sun dips down into the sea:
Most recently the sail had stolen the sun’s show.
Hand-crafted with care, the highest quality, brilliantly colored and designed,
The sail was the envy of every captain and crew.
The Captain’s heart swollen with pride:
The praises and accolades filled his ears until they poised his heart.
“The wind is not favorable, we have left our course,” declared the crew.
“Sails at full mast!” was the response of a hardening heart.
“The wind is too strong, we risk running aground,” was the fearful plea.
“Sails at full mast!” echoed the dark soul.
The Captain, the ship, and the crew tossed about by every wind:
Battered, beaten, broken, and destroyed.
The sail, once envied by all, forgotten.

Tennyson Unsuppressed

I have been reading some poetry by Tennyson here and there the last few months. Here are a couple of my favorite stanzas (taken from The Suppressed Poems of Alfred Lord Tennyson).

Photo by wHaTEvEr

Love & Sorrow
O maiden, fresher than the first green leaf
With which the fearful springtide flecks the lea,
Weep not, Almeida, that I said to thee
That thou hast half my heart, for bitter grief
Doth hold the other half in sovranty.
Thou art my heart’s sun in love’s crystalline:
Yet on both sides at once thou canst not shine:
Thine is the bright side of my heart, and thine
My heart’s day, but the shadow of my heart,
Issue of its own substance, my heart’s night
Thou canst not lighten even with thy light,
All powerful in beauty as thou art.
Almeida, if my heart were substanceless,
Then might thy rays pass thro’ to the other side,
So swiftly, that they nowhere would abide,
But lose themselves in utter emptiness.
Half-light, half-shadow, let my spirit sleep
They never learnt to love who never knew to weep.

And this one from Taliessen:

Alas, Church writers, altercating tribes–
The vessel and your Church may sink in storms.
Christ cried: Woe, woe, to Pharisees and Scribes!
Like them, you bicker less for truth than forms.
I sorrow when I read the things you write,
What unheroic pertness! what un-Christian spite!
Alas, our youth, so clever yet so small,
Thin dilletanti deep in nature’s plan,
Who make the emphatic One, by whom is all,
An essence less concentred than a man!
Better wild Mahmoud’s war-cry once again!
O fools, we want a manlike God and Godlike men!