Analysis of The Lotos-eaters

"Courage!" he said, and pointed toward the land,
    "This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon."
    In the afternoon they came unto a land
    In which it seemed always afternoon.
    All round the coast the languid air did swoon,
    Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
    Full-faced above the valley stood the moon;
    And like a downward smoke, the slender stream
    Along the cliff to fall and pause and fall did seem.

A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke,
   Slow-dropping veils of thinnest lawn, did go;
   And some thro' wavering lights and shadows broke,
   Rolling a slumbrous sheet of foam below.
   They saw the gleaming river seaward flow
   From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops,
   Three silent pinnacles of aged snow,
   Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops,
   Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.

The charmed sunset linger'd low adown
   In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale
   Was seen far inland, and the yellow down
   Border'd with palm, and many a winding vale
   And meadow, set with slender galingale;
   A land where all things always seem'd the same!
   And round about the keel with faces pale,
   Dark faces pale against that rosy flame,
   The mild-eyed melancholy Lotos-eaters came.

Branches they bore of that enchanted stem,
   Laden with flower and fruit, whereof they gave
   To each, but whoso did receive of them,
   And taste, to him the gushing of the wave
   Far far away did seem to mourn and rave
   On alien shores; and if his fellow spake,
   His voice was thin, as voices from the grave;
   And deep-asleep he seem'd, yet all awake,
   And music in his ears his beating heart did make.

They sat them down upon the yellow sand,
   Between the sun and moon upon the shore;
   And sweet it was to dream of Fatherland,
   Of child, and wife, and slave; but evermore
   Most weary seem'd the sea, weary the oar,
   Weary the wandering fields of barren foam.
   Then some one said, "We will return no more";
   And all at once they sang, "Our island home
   Is far beyond the wave; we will no longer roam."CHORIC SONGI

There is sweet music here that softer falls
   Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
   Or night-dews on still waters between walls
   Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
   Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
   Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes;
   Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies.
   Here are cool mosses deep,
   And thro' the moss the ivies creep,
   And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep,
   And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep."II

Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness,
   And utterly consumed with sharp distress,
   While all things else have rest from weariness?
    All things have rest: why should we toil alone,
   We only toil, who are the first of things,
   And make perpetual moan,
   Still from one sorrow to another thrown:
   Nor ever fold our wings,
   And cease from wanderings,
   Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm;
   Nor harken what the inner spirit sings,
   "There is no joy but calm!"
   Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?III

Lo! in the middle of the wood,
   The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud
   With winds upon the branch, and there
   Grows green and broad, and takes no care,
   Sun-steep'd at noon, and in the moon
   Nightly dew-fed; and turning yellow
   Falls, and floats adown the air.
   Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light,
   The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,
   Drops in a silent autumn night.
   All its allotted length of days
   The flower ripens in its place,
   Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,
   Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.IV

Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
   Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea.
   Death is the end of life; ah, why
   Should life all labour be?
   Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
   And in a little while our lips are dumb.
   Let us alone. What is it that will last?
   All things are taken from us, and become
   Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.
   Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
   To war with evil? Is there any peace
   In ever climbing up the climbing wave?
   All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave
   In silence; ripen, fall and cease:
   Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.V