RosalindNot reprinted till 1884 when it was unaltered, as it has remained since: but the poem appended and printed by Tennyson initalicshas not been reprinted.IMy Rosalind, my Rosalind,My frolic falcon, with bright eyes,Whose free delight, from any height of rapid flight,Stoops at all game that wing the skies,My Rosalind, my Rosalind,My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon, whither,Careless both of wind and weather,Whither fly ye, what game spy ye,Up or down the streaming wind?IIThe quick lark’s closest-carolled strains,The shadow rushing up the sea,The lightningflash atween the rain,The sunlight driving down the lea,The leaping stream, the very wind,That will not stay, upon his way,To stoop the cowslip to the plains,Is not so clear and bold and freeAs you, my falcon Rosalind.You care not for another’s pains,Because you are the soul of joy,Bright metal all without alloy.Life shoots and glances thro’ your veins,And flashes off a thousand ways,Through lips and eyes in subtle rays.Your hawkeyes are keen and bright,Keen with triumph, watching stillTo pierce me through with pointed light;And oftentimes they flash and glitterLike sunshine on a dancing rill,And your words are seeming-bitter,Sharp and few, but seeming-bitterFrom excess of swift delight.IIICome down, come home, my Rosalind,My gay young hawk, my Rosalind:Too long you keep the upper skies;Too long you roam, and wheel at will;But we must hood your random eyes,That care not whom they kill,And your cheek, whose brilliant hueIs so sparkling fresh to view,Some red heath-flower in the dew,Touched with sunrise. We must bindAnd keep you fast, my Rosalind,Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind,And clip your wings, and make you love:When we have lured you from above,And that delight of frolic flight, by day or night,From North to South;We’ll bind you fast in silken cords,And kiss away the bitter wordsFrom off your rosy mouth.[1][1]Perhaps the following lines may be allowed to stand as a separate poem; originally they made part of the text, where they were manifestly superfluous:—My Rosalind, my Rosalind,Bold, subtle, careless Rosalind,Is one of those who know no strifeOf inward woe or outward fear;To whom the slope and stream of life,The life before, the life behind,In the ear, from far and near,Chimeth musically clear.My falconhearted Rosalind,Fullsailed before a vigorous wind,Is one of those who cannot weepFor others’ woes, but overleapAll the petty shocks and fearsThat trouble life in early years,With a flash of frolic scornAnd keen delight, that never fallsAway from freshness, self-upborneWith such gladness, as, wheneverThe freshflushing springtime callsTo the flooding waters cool,Young fishes, on an April morn,Up and down a rapid river,Leap the little waterfallsThat sing into the pebbled pool.My happy falcon, Rosalind;Hath daring fancies of her own,Fresh as the dawn before the day,Fresh as the early seasmell blownThrough vineyards from an inland bay.My Rosalind, my Rosalind,Because no shadow on you fallsThink you hearts are tennis ballsTo play with, wanton Rosalind?
Not reprinted till 1884 when it was unaltered, as it has remained since: but the poem appended and printed by Tennyson initalicshas not been reprinted.
I
My Rosalind, my Rosalind,My frolic falcon, with bright eyes,Whose free delight, from any height of rapid flight,Stoops at all game that wing the skies,My Rosalind, my Rosalind,My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon, whither,Careless both of wind and weather,Whither fly ye, what game spy ye,Up or down the streaming wind?
II
The quick lark’s closest-carolled strains,The shadow rushing up the sea,The lightningflash atween the rain,The sunlight driving down the lea,The leaping stream, the very wind,That will not stay, upon his way,To stoop the cowslip to the plains,Is not so clear and bold and freeAs you, my falcon Rosalind.You care not for another’s pains,Because you are the soul of joy,Bright metal all without alloy.Life shoots and glances thro’ your veins,And flashes off a thousand ways,Through lips and eyes in subtle rays.Your hawkeyes are keen and bright,Keen with triumph, watching stillTo pierce me through with pointed light;And oftentimes they flash and glitterLike sunshine on a dancing rill,And your words are seeming-bitter,Sharp and few, but seeming-bitterFrom excess of swift delight.
III
Come down, come home, my Rosalind,My gay young hawk, my Rosalind:Too long you keep the upper skies;Too long you roam, and wheel at will;But we must hood your random eyes,That care not whom they kill,And your cheek, whose brilliant hueIs so sparkling fresh to view,Some red heath-flower in the dew,Touched with sunrise. We must bindAnd keep you fast, my Rosalind,Fast, fast, my wild-eyed Rosalind,And clip your wings, and make you love:When we have lured you from above,And that delight of frolic flight, by day or night,From North to South;We’ll bind you fast in silken cords,And kiss away the bitter wordsFrom off your rosy mouth.[1]
[1]Perhaps the following lines may be allowed to stand as a separate poem; originally they made part of the text, where they were manifestly superfluous:—My Rosalind, my Rosalind,Bold, subtle, careless Rosalind,Is one of those who know no strifeOf inward woe or outward fear;To whom the slope and stream of life,The life before, the life behind,In the ear, from far and near,Chimeth musically clear.My falconhearted Rosalind,Fullsailed before a vigorous wind,Is one of those who cannot weepFor others’ woes, but overleapAll the petty shocks and fearsThat trouble life in early years,With a flash of frolic scornAnd keen delight, that never fallsAway from freshness, self-upborneWith such gladness, as, wheneverThe freshflushing springtime callsTo the flooding waters cool,Young fishes, on an April morn,Up and down a rapid river,Leap the little waterfallsThat sing into the pebbled pool.My happy falcon, Rosalind;Hath daring fancies of her own,Fresh as the dawn before the day,Fresh as the early seasmell blownThrough vineyards from an inland bay.My Rosalind, my Rosalind,Because no shadow on you fallsThink you hearts are tennis ballsTo play with, wanton Rosalind?