Ulysses and the Sirens
(1891)
(1891)
John William Waterhouse
"It is difficult
to get the news from poems;
yet men die miserably every day
from lack
of what is found there."
William Carlos Williams
At some point in the late sixties, I rediscovered Tennyson's great epic poem, Ulysses. I had read the poem in high school and college, of course, but treated it as little more than an academic exercise. My perceptions changed, however, as I began to face the daunting headwinds of my own voyage. I began to understand that Ulysses was more than just a poem; it was a reliable chart of the uncertain waters over which my own life would travel. More importantly, it provided wise counsel on what one must do to not only survive the journey, but to find strength, joy, and fulfillment in it.
In the days that followed my rediscovery of Ulysses, I committed the poem to memory, where, for the most part, it has remained for four decades. I share it with you now because, even if you have read it hundreds of times, there is always something fresh and inspirational to be unveiled. If, like me, you are still writing the script for the third act of your life, you may find the poem's stentorian call to adventure to be especially moving. It is, indeed, a time "to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield." Enjoy!
Ulysses
by Alfred Lord Tennyson
In the days that followed my rediscovery of Ulysses, I committed the poem to memory, where, for the most part, it has remained for four decades. I share it with you now because, even if you have read it hundreds of times, there is always something fresh and inspirational to be unveiled. If, like me, you are still writing the script for the third act of your life, you may find the poem's stentorian call to adventure to be especially moving. It is, indeed, a time "to strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield." Enjoy!
Ulysses
by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vexed the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honored of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers;
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breathe were life. Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this grey spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the scepter and the isle --
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfill
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and through soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centered in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me --
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads -- you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil;
Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are:
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Portrait by George Frederic Watts
