Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). A Victorian Anthology, 1837–1895. 1895.
Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron 180992The Daisy
TennysonO
In lands of palm and southern pine;
In lands of palm, of orange-blossom,
Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine.
In ruin, by the mountain road;
How like a gem, beneath, the city
Of little Monaco, basking, glow’d.
The torrent vineyard streaming fell
To meet the sun and sunny waters,
That only heav’d with a summer swell.
By bays, the peacock’s neck in hue;
Where, here and there, on sandy beaches
A milky-bell’d amaryllis blew.
Yet present in his natal grove,
Now watching high on mountain cornice,
And steering, now, from a purple cove,
Till, in a narrow street and dim,
I stay’d the wheels at Cogoletto,
And drank, and loyally drank to him.
Not the clipp’d palm of which they boast;
But distant color, happy hamlet,
A moulder’d citadel on the coast,
A light amid its olives green;
Or olive-hoary cape in ocean;
Or rosy blossom in hot ravine,
Of silent torrents, gravel-spread;
And, crossing, oft we saw the glisten
Of ice, far up on a mountain head.
Those niched shapes of noble mould,
A princely people’s awful princes,
The grave, severe Genovese of old.
In those long galleries, were ours;
What drives about the fresh Casciné,
Or walks in Boboli’s ducal bowers.
Of tower or duomo, sunny-sweet,
Or palace, how the city glitter’d,
Thro’ cypress avenues, at our feet.
Remember what a plague of rain;
Of rain at Reggio, rain at Parma;
At Lodi, rain, Piacenza, rain.
Of sunlight) look’d the Lombard piles;
Porch-pillars on the lion resting,
And sombre, old, colonnaded aisles.
The giant windows’ blazon’d fires,
The height, the space, the gloom, the glory!
A mount of marble, a hundred spires!
Sun-smitten Alps before me lay.
I stood among the silent statues,
And statued pinnacles, mute as they.
Was Monte Rosa, hanging there
A thousand shadowy-pencill’d valleys
And snowy dells in a golden air.
To Como; shower and storm and blast
Had blown the lake beyond his limit,
And all was flooded; and how we past
And in my head, for half the day,
The rich Virgilian rustic measure
Of Lari Maxume, all the way,
As on The Lariano crept
To that fair port below the castle
Of Queen Theodolind, where we slept;
A cypress in the moonlight shake
The moonlight touching o’er a terrace
One tall Agavé above the lake.
And up the snowy Splugen drew,
But ere we reach’d the highest summit
I pluck’d a daisy, I gave it you.
And now it tells of Italy.
O love, we two shall go no longer
To lands of summer across the sea;
Whose crying is a cry for gold:
Yet here to-night in this dark city,
When ill and weary, alone and cold,
This nursling of another sky
Still in the little book you lent me,
And where you tenderly laid it by:
The gloom that saddens Heaven and Earth,
The bitter east, the misty summer
And gray metropolis of the North.
Perchance, to charm a vacant brain,
Perchance, to dream you still beside me,
My fancy fled to the South again.