“This is the poem of the air, / Slowly in silent syllables recorded; / This is the secret of despair

For Poetry Monday:

“The splendor falls on castle walls,” Alfred the Tennyson

      The splendor falls on castle walls
          And snowy summits old in story:
      The long light shakes across the lakes,
          And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

      O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
          And thinner, clearer, farther going!
      O sweet and far from cliff and scar
          The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying:
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

      O love, they die in yon rich sky,
          They faint on hill or field or river:
      Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
          And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.


This is one of several excellent lyrics found in the otherwise deservedly unread The Princess, a book-length didactic poem about female education. Spoiler: it can’t decide whether this is unwise or futile. Seriously, don’t bother reading it,* just the half-dozen anthology pieces from it—such as this one. It’s untitled in the original, but is sometimes called “The Splendor Falls” or “Blow, Bugle, Blow”. The content may be slight but oh those cadences, and the mouthfeel is :chef’s kiss:


* Unless you’re itching for a slapfight with Victorians, in which case I’ll just get out of your way ’scuse me. Honestly, though, a slapfight with A.E. Housman sounds more productive.

---L.

Subject quote from Snow-Flakes, Henry the Longfellow.