Core: noun, the most important part of a thing, the essence; from the Latin cor, meaning heart.

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 Volume 2.2 This View’s Poetry September 16, 2002 


    Tears, Idle Tears    
         
   

   Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

   Fresh as the first beam glittering on the sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

   Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken’d birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

   Dear as remember’d kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign’d
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

   
         
    Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)    
   

Norton Anthology of English Literature:
The Major Authors (Sixth Edition) pp. 1902f

   

    The Charge of the Light Brigade    
         
   

                        1.

Half a league, half a league,
  Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!
”Charge for the guns!“ he said:
Into the valley of Death
  Rode the six hundred.

                        2.

”Forward, the Light Brigade!“
Was there a man dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
  Someone had blunder’d:
Their’s not to make reply,
Their’s not to reason why,
Their’s but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
  Rode the six hundred.

                        3.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
  Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
  Rode the six hundred.

                        4.

Flash’d all their sabres bare,
Flash’d as they turn’d in air,
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
  All the world wonder’d:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel’d from the sabre stroke
  Shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not
  Not the six hundred.

                        5.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
  Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro’ the jaws of Death
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
  Left of six hundred.

                        6.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
  All the world wondered.
Honor the charge they made,
Honor the Light Brigade,
  Noble six hundred.

   
         
    Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)    
   

Norton Anthology of English Literature:
The Major Authors (Sixth Edition) pp. 1954f

   

    In the Valley of Cauteretz    
         
   

All along the valley, stream that flashest white,
Deepening thy voice with the deepening of the night,
All along the valley, where thy waters flow,
I walk’d with one I loved two and thirty years ago.
All along the valley while I walk’d to-day,
The two and thirty years were a mist that rolls away;
For all along the valley, down thy rocky bed
Thy living voice to me was as the voice of the dead,
And all along the valley, by rock and cave and tree,
The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.

   
         
    Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)    
   

Norton Anthology of English Literature:
The Major Authors (Sixth Edition) p. 1961

   

    Crossing the Bar    
         
   

Sunset and evening star,
   And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
   When I put out to sea,

But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
   Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
   Turns again home.

Twilight and evening bell,
   And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
   When I embark;

For though from out our bourne of Time and Place
   The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
   When I have crossed the bar.

   
         
    Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)    
    Norton Anthology of English Literature:
The Major Authors (Sixth Edition) p. 1976

   

    Triad    
         
    From the Silence of Time, Time’s Silence borrow.
In the heart of To-day is the word of To-morrow.
The Builders of Joy are the Children of Sorrow.
   
         
    William Sharp (1856-1902)    
   

Oxford Book of English Mystical Verse p. 400
ed. D. H. S. Nicholson and A. H. E. Lee

   



 Volume 2.2 This View’s Poetry September 16, 2002 





The View from the Core, and all original material, © E. L. Core 2002. All rights reserved.

Cor ad cor loquitur J. H. Newman — “Heart speaks to heart”