[Published in the _Yorkshire Literary Annual_ for 1832. Edited by C.F. Edgar, London: Longman and Co. Reprinted in the _Athenæum_, 4 May, 1867.]
There are three things that fill my heart with sighs And steep my soul in laughter (when I view Fair maiden forms moving like melodies), Dimples, roselips, and eyes of any hue.
There are three things beneath the blessed skies For which I live--black eyes, and brown and blue; I hold them all most dear; but oh! black eyes, I live and die, and only die for you.
Of late such eyes looked at me--while I mused At sunset, underneath a shadowy plane In old Bayona, nigh the Southern Sea-- From an half-open lattice looked at _me_.
I saw no more only those eyes--confused And dazzled to the heart with glorious pain.
[The poems numbered XXXI-XXXIX were published in the 1832 volume (_Poems by Alfred Tennyson_. London: Edward Moxon, 94 New Bond Street. MDCCCXXXIII; published December, 1832), and were thereafter suppressed.]
Oh, Beauty, passing beauty! sweetest Sweet! How canst thou let me waste my youth in sighs; I only ask to sit beside thy feet. Thou knowest I dare not look into thine eyes, Might I but kiss thy hand! I dare not fold My arms about thee--scarcely dare to speak. And nothing seems to me so wild and bold, As with one kiss to touch thy blessèd cheek. Methinks if I should kiss thee, no control Within the thrilling brain could keep afloat The subtle spirit. Even while I spoke, The bare word KISS hath made my inner soul To tremble like a lutestring, ere the note Hath melted in the silence that it broke.
Hesperus and his daughters three That sing about the golden tree. --COMUS.
The Northwind fall'n, in the newstarréd night Zidonian Hanno, voyaging beyond The hoary promontory of Soloë Past Thymiaterion, in calmèd bays, Between the Southern and the Western Horn, Heard neither warbling of the nightingale, Nor melody o' the Lybian lotusflute Blown seaward from the shore; but from a slope That ran bloombright into the Atlantic blue, Beneath a highland leaning down a weight Of cliffs, and zoned below with cedarshade, Came voices, like the voices in a dream, Continuous till he reached the other sea.
The golden apple, the golden apple, the hallowed fruit, Guard it well, guard it warily, Singing airily, Standing about the charméd root. Round about all is mute, As the snowfield on the mountain-peaks, As the sandfield at the mountain-foot. Crocodiles in briny creeks Sleep and stir not: all is mute. If ye sing not, if ye make false measure, We shall lose eternal pleasure, Worth eternal want of rest. Laugh not loudly: watch the treasure Of the wisdom of the West. In a corner wisdom whispers. Five and three (Let it not be preached abroad) make an awful mystery. For the blossom unto three-fold music bloweth; Evermore it is born anew; And the sap to three-fold music floweth, From the root Drawn in the dark, Up to the fruit, Creeping under the fragrant bark, Liquid gold, honeysweet thro' and thro'. Keen-eyed Sisters, singing airily, Looking warily Every way, Guard the apple night and day, Lest one from the East come and take it away.