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Alfred Lord Tennyson - Recollection
Work rating: Medium

WHEN the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free 
In the silken sail of infancy, 
The tide of time flow`d back with me, 
The forward-flowing tide of time; 
And many a sheeny summer-morn, 
Adown the Tigris I was borne, 
By Bagdat`s shrines of fretted gold, 
High-walled gardens green and old; 
True Mussulman was I and sworn, 
     For it was in the golden prime 
          Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
Anight my shallop, rustling thro` 
The low and bloomed foliage, drove 
The fragrant, glistening deeps, and clove 
The citron-shadows in the blue: 
By garden porches on the brim, 
The costly doors flung open wide, 
Gold glittering thro` lamplight dim, 
And broider`d sofas on each side: 
     In sooth it was a goodly time, 
     For it was in the golden prime 
          Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
Often where clear-stemm`d platans guard 
The outlet, did I turn away 
The boat-head down a broad canal 
From the main river sluiced, where all 
The sloping of the moon-lit sward 
Was damask-work, and deep inlay 
Of braided blooms unmown, which crept 
Adown to where the water slept. 
     A goodly place, a goodly time, 
     For it was in the golden prime 
          Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
A motion from the river won 
Ridged the smooth level, bearing on 
My shallop thro` the star-strown calm, 
Until another night in night 
I enter`d, from the clearer light, 
Imbower`d vaults of pillar`d palm, 
Imprisoning sweets, which, as they clomb 
Heavenward, were stay`d beneath the dome 
     Of hollow boughs.—A goodly time, 
     For it was in the golden prime 
          Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
Still onward; and the clear canal 
Is rounded to as clear a lake. 
From the green rivage many a fall 
Of diamond rillets musical, 
Thro` little crystal arches low 
Down from the central fountain`s flow 
Fall`n silver-chiming, seemed to shake 
The sparkling flints beneath the prow. 
     A goodly place, a goodly time, 
     For it was in the golden prime 
          Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
Above thro` many a bowery turn 
A walk with vary-colour`d shells 
Wander`d engrain`d.  On either side 
All round about the fragrant marge 
From fluted vase, and brazen urn 
In order, eastern flowers large, 
Some dropping low their crimson bells 
Half-closed, and others studded wide 
     With disks and tiars, fed the time 
     With odour in the golden prime 
          Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
Far off, and where the lemon grove 
In closest coverture upsprung, 
The living airs of middle night 
Died round the bulbul as he sung; 
Not he: but something which possess`d 
The darkness of the world, delight, 
Life, anguish, death, immortal love, 
Ceasing not, mingled, unrepress`d, 
     Apart from place, withholding time, 
     But flattering the golden prime 
          Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
Black the garden-bowers and grots 
Slumber`d: the solemn palms were ranged 
Above, unwoo`d of summer wind: 
A sudden splendour from behind 
Flush`d all the leaves with rich gold-green, 
And, flowing rapidly between 
Their interspaces, counterchanged 
The level lake with diamond-plots 
     Of dark and bright. A lovely time, 
     For it was in the golden prime 
          Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
Dark-blue the deep sphere overhead, 
Distinct with vivid stars inlaid, 
Grew darker from that under-flame: 
So, leaping lightly from the boat, 
With silver anchor left afloat, 
In marvel whence that glory came 
Upon me, as in sleep I sank 
In cool soft turf upon the bank, 
     Entranced with that place and time, 
     So worthy of the golden prime 
          Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
Thence thro` the garden I was drawn— 
A realm of pleasance, many a mound, 
And many a shadow-chequer`d lawn 
Full of the city`s stilly sound, 
And deep myrrh-thickets blowing round 
The stately cedar, tamarisks, 
Thick rosaries of scented thorn, 
Tall orient shrubs, and obelisks 
     Graven with emblems of the time, 
     In honour of the golden prime 
          Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
With dazed vision unawares 
From the long alley`s latticed shade 
Emerged, I came upon the great 
Pavilion of the Caliphat. 
Right to the carven cedarn doors, 
Flung inward over spangled floors, 
Broad-based flights of marble stairs 
Ran up with golden balustrade, 
     After the fashion of the time, 
     And humour of the golden prime 
          Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
The fourscore windows all alight 
As with the quintessence of flame, 
A million tapers flaring bright 
From twisted silvers look`d to shame 
The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream`d 
Upon the mooned domes aloof 
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem`d 
Hundreds of crescents on the roof 
     Of night new-risen, that marvellous time 
     To celebrate the golden prime 
          Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
Then stole I up, and trancedly 
Gazed on the Persian girl alone, 
Serene with argent-lidded eyes 
Amorous, and lashes like to rays 
Of darkness, and a brow of pearl 
Tressed with redolent ebony, 
In many a dark delicious curl, 
Flowing beneath her rose-hued zone; 
     The sweetest lady of the time, 
     Well worthy of the golden prime 
          Of good Haroun Alraschid. 
 
Six columns, three on either side, 
Pure silver, underpropt a rich 
Throne of the massive ore, from which 
Down-droop`d, in many a floating fold, 
Engarlanded and diaper`d 
With inwrought flowers, a cloth of gold. 
Thereon, his deep eye laughter-stirr`d 
With merriment of kingly pride, 
     Sole star of all that place and time, 
     I saw him—in his golden prime, 
          The good Haroun Alraschid.
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