The Poetry Corner

The Gardeners Daughter

By Alfred Lord Tennyson

This morning is the morning of the day, When I and Eustace from the city went To see the Gardeners Daughter; I and he, Brothers in Art; a friendship so complete Portiond in halves between us, that we grew The fable of the city where we dwelt. My Eustace might have sat for Hercules; So muscular he spread, so broad of breast. He, by some law that holds in love, and draws The greater to the lesser, long desired A certain miracle of symmetry, A miniature of loveliness, all grace Summd up and closed in little;Juliet, she So light of foot, so light of spiritoh, she To me myself, for some three careless moons, The summer pilot of an empty heart Unto the shores of nothing! Know you not Such touches are but embassies of love, To tamper with the feelings, ere he found Empire for life? but Eustace painted her, And said to me, she sitting with us then, When will you paint like this? and I replied, (My words were half in earnest, half in jest,) Tis not your work, but Loves. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March. And Juliet answerd laughing, Go and see The Gardeners daughter: trust me, after that, You scarce can fail to match his masterpiece. And up we rose, and on the spur we went. Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. News from the humming city comes to it In sound of funeral or of marriage bells; And, sitting muffled in dark leaves, you hear The windy clanging of the minster clock; Although between it and the garden lies A league of grass, washd by a slow broad stream, That, stirrd with languid pulses of the oar, Waves all its lazy lilies, and creeps on, Barge-laden. to three arches of a bridge Crownd with the minster-towers. The fields between Are dewy-fresh, browsed by deep-udderd kine, And all about the large lime feathers low, The lime a summer home of murmurous wings. In that still place she, hoarded in herself, Grew, seldom seen; not less among us lived Her fame from lip to lip. Who had not heard Of Rose, the Gardeners daughter? Where was he, So blunt in memory, so old at heart, At such a distance from his youth in grief, That, having seen, forgot? The common mouth, So gross to express delight, in praise of her Grew oratory. Such a lord is Love, And Beauty such a mistress of the world. And if I said that Fancy, led by Love, Would play with flying forms and images, Yet this is also true, that, long before I lookd upon her, when I heard her name My heart was like a prophet to my heart, And told me I should love. A crowd of hopes, That sought to sow themselves like winged seeds, Born out of everything I heard and saw, Flutterd about my senses and my soul; And vague desires, like fitful blasts of balm To one that travels quickly, made the air Of Life delicious, and all kinds of thought, That verged upon them, sweeter than the dream Dreamd by a happy man, when the dark East, Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn. And sure this orbit of the memory folds For ever in itself the day we went To see her. All the land in flowery squares, Beneath a broad and equal-blowing wind, Smelt of the coming summer, as one large cloud Drew downward: but all else of heaven was pure Up to the Sun, and May from verge to verge, And May with me from head to heel. And now, As tho twere yesterday, as tho it were The hour just flown, that morn with all its sound, (For those old Mays had thrice the life of these,) Rings in mine ears. The steer forgot to graze, And, where the hedge-row cuts the pathway, stood, Leaning his horns into the neighbour field, And lowing to his fellows. Froth the woods Came voices of the well-contented doves. The lark could scarce get out his notes for joy, But shook his song together as he neard His happy home, the ground. To left and right, The cuckoo told his name to all the hills; The mellow ouzel fluted in the elm; The redcap whistled; and the nightingale Sang loud, as tho he were the bird of day. And Eustace turnd, and smiling said to me, Hear how the bushes echo! by my life, These birds have joyful thoughts. Think you they sing Like poets, from the vanity of song? Or have they any sense of why they sing? And would they praise the heavens for what they have? And I made answer, Were there nothing else For which to praise the heavens but only love, That only love were cause enough for praise. Lightly he laughd, as one that read my thought, And on we went; but ere an hour had passd, We reachd a meadow slanting to the North; Down which a well-worn pathway courted us To one green wicket in a privet hedge; This, yielding, gave into a grassy walk Thro crowded lilac-ambush trimly pruned; And one warm gust, full-fed with perfume, blew Beyond us, as we enterd in the cool. The garden stretches southward. In the midst A cedar spread his dark-green layers of shade. The garden-glasses glanced, and momently The twinkling laurel scatterd silver lights. Eustace, I said, this wonder keeps the house. He nodded, but a moment afterwards He cried, Look! look! Before he ceased I turnd, And, ere a star can wink, beheld her there. For up the porch there grew an Eastern rose, That, flowering high, the last nights gale had caught, And blown across the walk. One arm aloft Gownd in pure white, that fitted to the shape Holding the bush, to fix it back, she stood, A single stream of all her soft brown hair Pourd on one side: the shadow of the flowers Stole all the golden gloss, and, wavering Lovingly lower, trembled on her waist Ah, happy shade-and still went wavering down, But, ere it touchd a foot, that might have danced The greensward into greener circles, dipt, And mixd with shadows of the common ground! But the full day dwelt on her brows, and sunnd Her violet eyes, and all her Hebe bloom, And doubled his own warmth against her lips, And on the bounteous wave of such a breast As never pencil drew. Half light, half shade, She stood, a sight to make an old man young. So rapt, we neard the house; but she, a Rose In roses, mingled with her fragrant toil, Nor heard us come, nor from her tendance turnd Into the world without; till close at hand, And almost ere I knew mine own intent, This murmur broke the stillness of that air Which brooded round about her Ah, one rose, One rose, but one, by those fair fingers culld, Were worth a hundred kisses pressd on lips Less exquisite than thine. She lookd: but all Suffused with blushesneither self-possessd Nor startled, but betwixt this mood and that, Divided in a graceful quietpaused, And dropt the branch she held, and turning, wound Her looser hair in braid, and stirrd her lips For some sweet answer, tho no answer came, Nor yet refused the rose, but granted it, And moved away, and left me, statue-like, In act to render thanks. I, that whole day, Saw her no more, altho I lingerd there Till every daisy slept, and Loves white star Beamd thro the thickend cedar in the dusk. So home we went, and all the livelong way With solemn gibe did Eustace banter me. Now, said he, will you climb the top of Art. You cannot fail but work in hues to dim The Titianic Flora. Will you match My Juliet? you, not you,the Master, Love, A more ideal Artist he than all. So home I went, but could not sleep for Joy, Reading her perfect features in the gloom, Kissing the rose she gave me oer and oer, And shaping faithful record of the glance That graced the givingsuch a noise of life Swarmd in the golden present, such a voice Calld to me from the years to come, and such A length of bright horizon rimmd the dark. And all that night I heard the watchman peal The sliding season: all that night I heard The heavy clocks knolling the drowsy hours. The drowsy hours, dispensers of all good, Oer the mute city stole with folded wings, Distilling odours on me as they went To greet their fairer sisters of the East. Love at first sight, first-born, and heir to all, Made this night thus. Henceforward squall nor storm Could keep me from that Eden where she dwelt. Light pretexts drew me; sometimes a Dutch love For tulips; then for roses, moss or musk, To grace my city rooms; or fruits and cream Served in the weeping elm; and more and more A word could bring the colour to my cheek; A thought would fill my eyes with happy dew; Love trebled life within me, and with each The year increased. The daughters of the year, One after one, thro that still garden passd; Each garlanded with her peculiar flower Danced into light, and died into the shade; And each in passing touchd with some new grace Or seemd to touch her, so that day by day, Like one that never can be wholly known, Her beauty grew; till Autumn brought an hour For Eustace, when I heard his deep I will, Breathed, like the covenant of a God, to hold From thence thro all the worlds: but I rose up Full of his bliss, and following her dark eyes Felt earth as air beneath me, till I reachd The wicket-gate, and found her standing there. There sat we down upon a garden mound, Two mutually enfolded; Love, the third, Between us, in the circle of his arms Enwound us both; and over many a range Of waning lime the gray cathedral towers, Across a hazy glimmer of the west, Reveald their shining windows: from them clashd The bells; we listend; with the time we playd, We spoke of other things; we coursed about The subject most at heart, more near and near, Like doves about a dovecote, wheeling round The central wish, until we settled there. Then, in that time and place, I spoke to her, Requiring, tho I knew it was mine own, Yet for the pleasure that I took to hear, Requiring at her hand the greatest gift, A womans heart, the heart of her I loved; And in that time and place she answerd me, And in the compass of three little words, More musical than ever came in one, The silver fragments of a broken voice, Made me most happy, faltering, I am thine. Shall I cease here? Is this enough to say That my desire, like all strongest hopes, By its own energy fulfilld itself, Merged in completion? Would you learn at full How passion rose thro circumstantial grades Beyond all grades developd? and indeed I had not staid so long to tell you all, But while I mused came Memory with sad eyes, Holding the folded annals of my youth; And while I nursed, Love with knit brows went by, And with a flying finger swept my lips, And spake, Be wise: not easily forgiven Are those, who setting wide the doors that bar The secret bridal chambers of the heart, Let in the day. Here, then, my words have end. Yet might I tell of meetings, of farewells Of that which came between, more sweet than each, In whispers, like the whispers of the leaves That tremble round a nightingalein sighs Which perfect Joy, perplexd for utterance, Stole from her sister Sorrow. Might I not tell Of difference, reconcilement, pledges given, And vows, where there was never need of vows, And kisses, where the heart on one wild leap Hung tranced from all pulsation, as above The heavens between their fairy fleeces pale Sowd all their mystic gulfs with fleeting stars; Or while the balmy glooming, crescent-lit, Spread the light haze along the river-shores, And in the hollows; or as once we met Unheedful, tho beneath a whispering rain Night slid down one long stream of sighing wind, And in her bosom bore the baby, Sleep. But this whole hour your eyes have been intent On that veild pictureveild, for what it holds May not be dwelt on by the common day. This prelude has prepared thee. Raise thy soul; Make thine heart ready with thine eyes the time Is come to raise the veil. Behold her there, As I beheld her ere she knew my heart, My first, last love; the idol of my youth, The darling of my manhood, and, alas! Now the most blessed memory of mine age.