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 enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext 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 honour'd 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 wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades For ever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! As tho' 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 gray 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 sceptre and the isle,— Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labour, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred 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 honour 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, 'T is 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. 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 tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

It's not very beneficial for a lazy king, To sit by the fireplace, among these empty rocks, With an old wife, I measure and give out Unfair laws to a wild people, Who save, sleep, eat, and don't know me. I can't stop traveling: I want to experience life fully: I've always enjoyed life a lot, And suffered a lot, both with those who loved me, and alone, On shore, and when through fast-moving clouds the rainy stars Troubled the dark sea: I've become famous; For always wandering with a hungry heart I've seen and known a lot; cities of people And their ways, climates, councils, governments, Myself not the least, but respected by them all; And enjoyed the excitement of battle with my equals, Far on the echoing plains of windy Troy. I'm part of all that I've met; Yet all experience is an arch through which Shines that unexplored world whose edge fades Forever and ever as I move. How boring it is to stop, to finish, To rust without being used, not to shine! As if just breathing were living! Life stacked on life Would all be too little, and of one life to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and it would be wrong For some three days to store and save myself, And this gray spirit longing in desire To follow knowledge like a falling star, Beyond the furthest limit of human thought. This is my son, my own Telemachus, To whom I leave the power and the island,— Well-loved by me, wise to carry out This work, by slow carefulness to make gentle A rough people, and through gentle steps Bring them to be useful and good. He is most blameless, focused on the area Of common duties, careful not to fail In acts of kindness, and to give Proper respect to my household gods, When I am gone. He does his work, I do mine. There is the port; the ship fills her sail: There the dark, wide seas are gloomy. My sailors, Souls that have worked, and created, and thought with me— That always with a playful welcome faced The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free minds—you and I are old; Old age still has its honor and its work; Death ends all: but something before the end, Some work of noble note, may still be done, Not unworthy of men who fought with Gods. The lights start to twinkle from the rocks: The long day ends: the slow moon rises: the deep Moans around with many voices. Come, my friends, It's not too late to seek a new world. Push off, and sitting well in order hit The sounding waves; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall reach the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Though much is taken, much remains; and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, what we are, we are; One equal spirit of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to give up.