It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
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,
HALF a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.
Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
Thy tribute wave deliver:
No more by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.
All Things will Die
Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
Home they brought her warrior dead:
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry:
All her maidens, watching, said,
‘She must weep or she will die.’
'And ask ye why these sad tears stream?'
‘Te somnia nostra reducunt.’