Far-Far-Away

Far–far–away
What sight so lured him thro’ the fields he knew
As where earth’s green stole into heaven’s own hue,

Far–far–away?
What sound was dearest in his native dells?
The mellow lin-lan-lone of evening bells

Far–far–away.
What vague world-whisper, mystic pain or joy,
Thro’ those three words would haunt him when a boy,

Far–far–away?
A whisper from his dawn of life? a breath
From some fair dawn beyond the doors of death

Far–far–away?
Far, far, how far? from o’er the gates of Birth,
The faint horizons, all the bounds of earth,

Far–far–away?
What charm in words, a charm no words could give?
O dying words, can Music make you live

Far–far–away?
 ‘Who can say’

Who can say
Why To-day
To-morrow will be yesterday?
Who can tell
Why to smell
The violet recalls the dewy prime
Of youth and buried time?
The cause is nowhere found in rhyme.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Song: ‘The Winds, as at their Hour of Birth’

The winds, as at their hour of birth,
Leaning upon the ridged sea,
Breathed low around the rolling earth
With mellow preludes, ‘We are free.’
The streams, through many a lilied row
Down-carolling to the crisped sea,
Low-tinkled with a bell-like flow
Atween the blossoms, ‘We are free.’

- Alfred Lord Tennyson

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