by Lord Alfred Tennyson

    It little profits that an idle king，

    By this still hearth¹， among these barren crags，

    Matched with an aged² wife， I mete³ and dole⁴

    Unequal laws unto a savage⁵ race，

    That hoard⁶， and sleep， and feed， and know not me.

    I cannot rest from travel； I will drink

    Life to the lees. All times I have enjoyed

    Greatly， have suffered greatly， both with those

    That loved me， and alone； on shore， and when

    Through scudding⁷ 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 honored 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 wherethrough

    Gleams that untraveled world whose margin⁸ fades

    For ever and for ever when I move.

    How dull it is to pause， to make an end，

    To rust⁹ unburnished， not to shine in use！

    As though to breathe were life！ Life piled on life

    Were all too little， and of one to me

    Little remains¹⁰； but every hour is saved

    From that eternal silence， something more，

    A bringer of new things； and vile¹¹ it were

    For some three suns to store and hoard myself，

    And this gray spirit yearning¹² in desire

    To follow knowledge like a sinking star，

    Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

    This is my son， mine own Telemachus，

    To whom I leave the scepter and the isle¹³，

    Well-loved of me， discerning to fulfill¹⁴

    This labor¹⁵， by slow prudence¹⁶ to make mild

    A rugged¹⁷ people， and through soft degrees

    Subdue¹⁸ them to the useful and the good.

    Most blameless is he， centered in the sphere

    Of common duties， decent not to fail

    In offices of tenderness， and pay

    Meet adoration¹⁹ to my household gods，

    When I am gone. He works his work， I mine.

    There lies the port； the vessel²⁰ puffs²¹ her sail；

    There gloom the dark， broad seas. My mariners²²，

    Souls that have toiled²⁴， and wrought²⁵， 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 honor and his toil²³.

    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 wanes²⁶； the slow moon climbs； the deep

    Moans round with many voices. Come， my friends，

    'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

    Push off， and sitting well in order smite²⁷

    The sounding furrows²⁸； 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 Isles²⁹，

    And see the great Achilles， whom we knew.

    Though much is taken， much abides³⁰； and though

    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.

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