Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: the seed,

The little seed they laugh’d at in the dark,

Has risen and cleft the soil, and grown a bulk

Of spanless girth, that lays on every side

A thousand arms and rushes to the Sun.

Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: they came;

The leaves were wet with women’s tears: they heard

A noise of songs they would not understand:

They mark’d it with the red cross to the fall,

And would have strown it, and are fall’n themselves.

Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: they came,

The woodmen with their axes: lo the tree!

But we will make it faggots for the hearth,

And shape it plank and beam for roof and floor,

And boats and bridges for the use of men.

Our enemies have fall’n, have fall’n: they struck;

With their own blows they hurt themselves, nor knew

There dwelt an iron nature in the grain:

The glittering axe was broken in their arms,

Their arms were shatter’d to the shoulder blade.

Our enemies have fall’n, but this shall grow

A night of Summer from the heat, a breadth

Of Autumn, dropping fruits of power; and roll’d

With music in the growing breeze of Time,

The tops shall strike from star to star, the fangs

Shall move the stony bases of the world.





Lord Alfred Tennyson

More poems by Baron Alfred, Lord Tennyson