The Sea by JRR Tolkien

The Sea

To the Sea, to the Sea! The white gulls are crying,
The wind is blowing, and the white foam is flying.
West, west away, the round sun is falling.
Grey ship, grey ship, do you hear them calling?
The voices of my people gone before me?
I will leave, I will leave the woods that bore me;
For our days are ending and our years failing.
I will pass the wide waters lonely sailing.
Long are the waves on the Last Shore falling,
Sweet are the voices in the Lost Isle calling.
In Eressea, in Elvenhome, that no man can discover,
Where the leaves fall not: land of my people forever!
--JRR Tolkien

I've always thought that this was one of the saddest of Tolkien's poems. I never really figured out why the elves all had to leave. It seemed especially hard that Legolas would have to go now that he has such a good friend in Gimli, and a safe(ish) world to go explore together. I will admit that sailing away over an unknown horizon is a nice metaphor for death. You're not coming back, but you're not stopping cold either.
PS I found one of the bath illustrations I was looking for earlier this week and I've added it to the earlier post.

Love (Genevieve) by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Love

All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour,
When midway on the mount I lay,
Beside the ruined tower.

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene
Had blended with the lights of eve:
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve!.

She leant against the arméd man,
The statue of the arméd knight:
She stood and listened to my lay,
Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve !
She loves me best, whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.

I played a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story-
An old rude song, that suited well
That ruin wild and hoary.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace:
For well she know, I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that wore
Upon his shield a burning brand:
And that for ten long years he wooed
The Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined : and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love,
Interpreted my own.

She listened with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes, and modest grace:
And she forgave me, that I gazed
Too fondly on her face!.

But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
And that he crossed the mountain-woods,
Nor rested day nor night:

That sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade,-

There came and looked him in the face
An angel beautiful and bright:
And that he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight!.

And that unknowing what he did,
He leaped amid a murderous band,
And saved from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land!.

And how she wept, and clasped his knees:
And how she tended him in vain-
And ever strove to expiate
The scorn that crazed his brain ;-

And that she nursed him in a cave:
And how his madness went away,
When on the yellow forest-leaves
A dying man he lay ;-

His dying words -but when I reached
That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
My faultering voice and pausing harp
Disturbed her soul with pity!.

All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve:
The music and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve:

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherished long!.

She wept with pity and delight,
She blushed with love, and virgin-shame:
And like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved -she stepped aside,
As conscious of my look she stepped-
The suddenly, with timorous eye
She fled to me and wept.

She half enclosed me with her arms,
She pressed me with a meek embrace:
And bending back her head, looked up,
And gazed upon my face.

'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly 'twas a bashful art,
That I might rather feel, than see,
The swelling of her heart.

I calmed her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride:
And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous Bride.
--Samuel Taylor Coleridge

As long as we're thinking about Arthurian Legends, I thought I'd include this poem. It isn't explicitly Arthurian--it's obviously set much later than that, but by his choice of the name Genevieve, and use of the story of a mad knight, he's definitely making reference to those legends.

Both Lancelot and Tristam go mad in Malory's Le Morte Darthur. Both were wooing their respective queens. Both were banished by their respective kings. Both ran around in the woods alternately doing prodigious deeds and being abused by the peasantry while out of their minds. Neither one, however, rescued his Lady while mad, and though they were both injured, neither one died at the end of the madness. Tristam was cured by seeing Isoud (whose little dog recognized the crazed Tristam and brought the Queen to him). Elaine (Galahad's mother) found Lancelot employed as a fool in a castle and arranged for him to be healed by the Holy Grail.

So again, it's not quite exactly referencing a specific story (though Malory is hardly the only source, both knights were commonly known to have survived the madness), but rather bringing the entire body of work to mind. We know that the Arthurian Legends are full of tragic, romantic tales of forbidden and unrequited love, and so we don't need to connect it to a specific story to understand how his tale could have aroused such tender feelings in the listener.

There Was a Young Woman Named Bright by Anonymous

There Was a Young Woman Named Bright

There was a young woman named Bright
Whose speed was much faster than light.
She set out one day
In a relative way,
And returned on the previous night.
--Anonymous

Yesterday's post was enormous, so today's will be short.

I like limericks. I especially like clever ones with a bit of a surprise. I appreciate the work of early practitioners of the craft like Lear, but in a very short time, his get old (especially since he had no problem repeating a rhyme within the poem -- come on, you only need to think of three different words!).

The Lady of Shalott by Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Lady of Shalott

Part I

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Only reapers, reaping early
In among the bearded barley,
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to tower'd Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers " 'Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott."

Part II

There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.

And moving thro' a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot:
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village-churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls,
Pass onward from Shalott.

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes thro' the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.

But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often thro' the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed:
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.

Part III

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley-sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armour rung,
Beside remote Shalott.

All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flash'd into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.

She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces thro' the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.

Part IV

In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining,
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And round about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.

And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance--
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right--
The leaves upon her falling light--
Thro' the noises of the night
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.

Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darken'd wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And round the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.

Who is this? and what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they cross'd themselves for fear,
All the knights at Camelot:
But Lancelot mused a little space;
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."
--Alfred Lord Tennyson

I memorized large portions of this, thanks to Loreena McKennitt's lovely recording, though I never got it completely down. I especially like the stanzas that describe Lancelot -- his coal black curls flowing from underneath his helmet, the way his armor flashed and sparkled -- it's so romantic. I can understand why it has inspired so many other works of art, and was one of Anne's (of Green Gables)favorites.

When I was reciting parts of it once, at a dinner party at college with Doug, Lesli, Genivive and possibly some other people, Genevive mentioned that someone had once said that she had a "lovely face" and that she thought that it was an example of damning with faint praise. She interpreted the poem as showing how Lancelot rode through the world roughshod and even though this woman died for him, all he could say was, "She has a lovely face."

I interpret it differently. Lancelot did nothing to encourage the Lady, he literally had never set eyes on her before. When she was found dead in the river, everyone else was horrified and frightened, but he had some compassion for her, and saw her as a person rather than an apparition.

The story is a little different as Malory tells it in Le Mort d'Arthur. If you want to read it for yourself, this story is found in Book 18 chapters 9, 14, 19 and 20. Here, she is referred to as Elaine Le Blank, or the Maid of Astolat.

Lancelot shows up at her father's castle looking for lodging before a big tournament. By this time he's got to go to tournament in disguise, since nobody will let him fight otherwise. Elaine falls in love with him, and asks him to wear her favor at the tournament. He says no at first, but then figures since he never wears anybody's favors, that this will help with his disguise, so he says OK. A couple chapters later, when he's about to leave the castle and Elaine said, "My lord, Sir Launcelot, now I see ye will depart; now fair knight and courteous knight, have mercy upon me, and suffer me not to die for thy love."
Lancelot asked, "What do you want from me?"
She said that she wants to marry him.
Lancelot said something along the lines of, "Not a chance. If I didn't marry the other Elaine (the mother of his son Galahad who had drugged and tricked him into lying with her), and I can't marry Gwenevere, then I'm certainly not going to marry anyone else."
He won't consent to be her lover either, since he says that would be dishonorable, and he's not going to repay the kindness of her father and brother that way.
"Alas," said she, "then must I die for your love."
"You'll do no such thing" said Lancelot. "Look, I like you, find some other knight who actually wants to marry you, and I'll give you a thousand pounds a year to live on, and I'll come be your champion anytime you need one."
Then the Lady fell down in a swoon. Lancelot left her in the care of her family, and told her father, "I'm sorry about your daughter, but I was never the causer of it. I dare do all that a knight should do that she is a clean maiden for me, both for deed and for will. And I am right heavy of her distress, for she is a full fair maiden,good and gentle, and well taught."
After he left, she starved herself to death, despite her family's pleadings to get over it. As she was dying, they promised to put her in a boat with a letter in her hand, to cover the whole thing with black samite, and row her body down to Camelot.
When the body got there, it caused quite a scandal, but Lancelot told his story, and her brother backed him up, and after Lanceloth ahd payed for the funeral, everybody forgave him and said, "Well, you can't force love."

Just as the Sun by Jesse E Stay

Just as the Sun

Just as the sun
Which blesses us
During the day
With light and warmth--

And in the evening
Drops below the horizon
Leaving us
In the chill dark of night--

Is not extinguished!

But shines still
On distant shores
Blessing with its radiance
Other Souls
Beyond our view

So this dear one
Who warmed our hearts
And lighted our lives
Through the day--

Now gone
Beyond the limited horizon
Of our mortal view.

Leaving us
In dark sorrow
And chill loneliness--

Is not dead!

But sheds warmth and light
On dear souls gone before
--Jesse E. Stay

This is a poem I found among Grandpa's writings. I think it's a beautiful sentiment, and wonderful statement of his faith. I also like how he kept the metaphor simple, and didn't try to overextend it as people writing religious metaphors so often do.

Bath-Song by JRR Tolkien

Bath-Song

Sing hey! For the bath at close of day
that washes the weary mud away
A loon is he that will not sing
O! Water Hot is a noble thing!

O! Sweet is the sound of falling rain,
and the brook that leaps from hill to plain;
but better then rain or rippling streams
is Water Hot that smokes and steams.

O! Water cold we may pour at need
down a thirsty throat and be glad indeed
but better is beer if drink we lack,
and Water Hot poured down the back.

O! Water is fair that leaps on high
in a fountain white beneath the sky;
but never did fountain sound so sweet
as splashing Hot Water with my feet!
--JRR Tolkien

Sorry the picture on this is so generic. I'm pretty sure there's a great painting of this scene by a professional artist like the Brothers Hildebrandt or Alan Lee, but I realized fairly soon that I didn't want to sort through hundreds of pictures with bath in the title.

OK, this poem got picked today for a couple of reasons. First, I haven't posted a from a novel in a while. Second, I just like this poem. It makes me laugh -- especially as I imagine Pippin getting so excited about his song that, "It appeared that a lot of Pippin's bath water had imitated a fountain and leaped on high." Third, I love a hot bath, especially in a tub that's big enough to contain me, which is rare. Whenever I imagine what it would be like to do as so many fantay heroines do, and magically get transported to one of these fantasy worlds to somehow defeat the evil sorcerer and free the country, I think, "Yeah, that would be fun, but the first thing I'd do once all the shouting died down, is instiute some kind of indoor plumbing with hot showers." Seriously. I do.

My final reason for posting this poem is complicated. I often dream, sometimes several dreams in a night. They seldom make much sense, though they seem logical in that dream sort of way. When I'm under a lot of stress, I have nightmares which often end in me yelling out loud (once I can make sound come), whereupon Peter wakes me up, and everything's OK. Well one night last week, Peter had to wake me up twice in one night. The first time, Everything was going fine in the dream, and then suddenly the floor dropped out from under me, I fell into some water and was drowning. The second time, I was walking along, and suddenly heard a noise behind me and turned around to find a giant kangaroo monster with a tiny head and long long arms. The weirdest part, though was that neither dream was a nightmare type dream. They were fine until the second or two before I yelled and woke up. Anyway, somebody was trying to interpret the dreams for me, and asked me what I associate with water. All I could come up with were good things like fun times with family at the beach or pool or water skiing, and nice hot showers. Of course, drowning had entirely different associations, few of which had anything to do with water, which was more to the point. Anyway, I've been thinking a lot about water ever since, and that's why this poem in particular jumped out at me.

Added 8-10-07:

I stumbled on this picture while looking for a picture for The Sea (posted today). It's not the one I remember, but it is better than the generic one I posted earlier.

Black Jack Davy by Anonymous

Black Jack Davey

Black Jack Davey come a-riden' on back,
A-whistlin' loud and merry.
Made the woods around him ring,
And he charmed the heart of a lady,
Charmed the heart of a lady.

"How old are you, my pretty little miss,
How old are you, my honey"
She answered to him with a lovin' smile
"I'll be sixteen come Sunday,
Be sixteen come Sunday."

"Come and go with me, my pretty little miss,
Come and go with me, my honey,
Take you where the grass grows green,
You never will want for money
You never will want for money

"Pull off, pull off them high-heeled shoes
All made of Spanish leather.
Get behind me on my horse
And we'll ride off together,
We'll both go off together."

Well, she pulled off them high-heeled shoes
Made of Spanish leather.
Got behind him on his horse
And they rode off together.
They rode off together.

At night the boss came home
Inquiring about this lady.
The servant spoke before she thought,
"She's been with Black Jack Dave,
Rode off with Black Jack Davey."

"Well, saddle for me my coal black stud,
He's speedier than the gray.
I rode all day and I'll ride all night,
And I'll overtake my lady.
I'll bring back my lady."

Well, he rode all night till the broad daylight,
Till he came to a river ragin',
And there he spied his darlin' bride
In the arms of Black Jack Davey.
Wrapped up with Black Jack Davey.

"Pull off, pull off them long blue gloves
All made of the finest leather.
Give to me your lily-white hand
And we'll both go home together.
We'll both go home together."

Well, she pulled off them long blue gloves
All made of the finest leather.
Gave to him her lily-white hand
And said good-bye forever.
Bid farewell forever.

"Would you forsake your house and home,
Would you forsake your baby?
Would you forsake your husband, too,
To go with Black Jack Davey.
Rode off with Black Jack Davey?"

"Well, I'll forsake my house and home,
And I'll forsake my baby.
I'll forsake my husband, too,
For the love of Black Jack Davey.
Ride off with Black Jack Davey."

"Last night I slept in a feather bed
Between my husband and baby.
Tonight I lay on the river banks
In the arms of Black Jack Davey,
Love my Black Jack Davey."


Johnie Faa

The gypsies came to our good lord's gate
And oh but they sang bonnie!
They sang sae sweet and sae very complete
That down came the fair lady.

And she came tripping doun the stair,
And a' her maids before her;
As soon as they saw her weel-far'd face,
They cast the glamer o'er her.

O come with me, says Johnie Faa,
O come with me, my dearie;
For I vow and I swear by the hilt of my sword,
That your lord shall nae mair come near ye.

Then she gied them the beer and the wine,
And they gied her the ginger;
But she gied them a far better thing,
The goud ring aff her finger.

Gae take frae me this yay mantle,
And bring to me a plaidie;
For if kith and kin, and a' had sworn,
I'll follow the gypsy laddie.

Yestreen I lay in a weel-made bed,
Wi' my good lord beside me;
But this night I'll lye 'neath moon and stars,
Wi' an ash and an oak fornent me!

And when our lord came hame at e'en,
And spier'd for his fair lady,
The tane she cry'd, and the other reply'd,
She's awa' wi' the gypsy laddie!

Gae saddle to me the black black steed,
Gae saddle and make him ready;
Before that I either eat or sleep,
I'll gae seek my fair lady.

And we were fifteen weel-made men,
Altho' we were na bonny;
And we were a' put down but ane,
For a fair young wanton lady.


Wraggle Taggle Gipsies

There were three gipsies a-come to my door,
And downstairs ran this a-lady, O!
One sang high and another sang low
And the other sang bonny, bonny Biscay, O!

Then she pull'd off her silk finish'd gown
And put on hose of leather, O!
The ragged, ragged rags about our door
She's gone with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!

It was late last night, when my lord came home,
Enquiring for his a-lady, O!
The servants said, on ev'ry hand:
She's gone with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!

O, saddle to me my milk-white steed,
Go and fetch me my pony, O!
That I may ride and seek my bride,
Who is gone with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!

O he rode high and he rode low,
He rode through woods and copses too,
Until he came to an open field,
And there he espied his a-lady, O!

What makes you leave your house and land?
What makes you leave your money, O?
What makes you leave your new wedded lord,
To go with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O?

What care I for my house and my land?
What care I for my money, O?
What care I for my new wedded lord?
I'm off with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!

Last night you slept on a goose-feather bed,
With the sheet turned down so bravely, O!
And tonight you'll sleep in a cold open field,
Along with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!

What care I for a goose-feather bed,
With the sheet turned down so bravely, O?
For tonight I'll sleep in a cold open field,
Along with the wraggle taggle gipsies, O!

-Anonymous

OK this is an especially long post because I've been taking an especially long break. I was overwhelmed with moving, unpacking, taking a trip, trying to get the new house put together, having Mom, Dad, and Steve come to help, ad generally with feeling queasy ALL THE TIME with morning sickness. Now that I'm past that stage, I think I have the energy to do this again for a while (at least until I get overwhelmed again).

These three poems are all the same story that has been retold different ways. They're all very old, and are often sung as folk songs. Peter and I were watching a documentary about a family of folk singers, and this was one of the songs they sang. I have a couple different versions in my music collection.

The pictures, for those those that don't recognize them, are from the game Ultima 6. I always thought it was funny how most people would wait until you asked their name, and then say something boring like, "I'm called Terri," but every time you talk to Zoltan, he enthusiastically introduces himself with, "Huzzah! I am Zoltan, king of the gypsies!" or later, "Huzzah! I am still Zoltan, king of the gypsies!" Thanks to Mike for helping me find a way to get a screenshot (XP doesn't support taking screenshots from DOS -- go figure!)