Complete Text
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,
’Tis 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.
Summary
Ulysses (Odysseus) declares that there is little point
in his staying home “by this still hearth” with his old wife, doling
out rewards and punishments for the unnamed masses who live in his
kingdom.
Still speaking to himself he proclaims that he “cannot
rest from travel” but feels compelled to live to the fullest and
swallow every last drop of life. He has enjoyed all his experiences
as a sailor who travels the seas, and he considers himself a symbol
for everyone who wanders and roams the earth. His travels have exposed him
to many different types of people and ways of living. They have
also exposed him to the “delight of battle” while fighting the Trojan
War with his men. Ulysses declares that his travels and encounters
have shaped who he is: “I am a part of all that I have met,” he
asserts. And it is only when he is traveling that the “margin” of
the globe that he has not yet traversed shrink and fade, and cease
to goad him.
Ulysses declares that it is boring to stay in one place,
and that to remain stationary is to rust rather than to shine; to
stay in one place is to pretend that all there is to life is the
simple act of breathing, whereas he knows that in fact life contains
much novelty, and he longs to encounter this. His spirit yearns
constantly for new experiences that will broaden his horizons; he
wishes “to follow knowledge like a sinking star” and forever grow
in wisdom and in learning.
Ulysses now speaks to an unidentified audience concerning
his son Telemachus, who will act as his successor while the great
hero resumes his travels: he says, “This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
to whom I leave the scepter and the isle.” He speaks highly but
also patronizingly of his son’s capabilities as a ruler, praising
his prudence, dedication, and devotion to the gods. Telemachus will
do his work of governing the island while Ulysses will do his work
of traveling the seas: “He works his work, I mine.”
In the final stanza, Ulysses addresses the mariners with
whom he has worked, traveled, and weathered life’s storms over many
years. He declares that although he and they are old, they still
have the potential to do something noble and honorable before “the
long day wanes.” He encourages them to make use of their old age
because “ ’tis not too late to seek a newer world.” He declares
that his goal is to sail onward “beyond the sunset” until his death.
Perhaps, he suggests, they may even reach the “Happy Isles,” or
the paradise of perpetual summer described in Greek mythology where
great heroes like the warrior Achilles were believed to have been
taken after their deaths. Although Ulysses and his mariners are
not as strong as they were in youth, they are “strong in will” and
are sustained by their resolve to push onward relentlessly: “To
strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.”
Form
This poem is written as a dramatic monologue: the entire
poem is spoken by a single character, whose identity is revealed
by his own words. The lines are in blank verse, or unrhymed iambic
pentameter, which serves to impart a fluid and natural quality to
Ulysses’s speech. Many of the lines are enjambed, which means that
a thought does not end with the line-break; the sentences often
end in the middle, rather than the end, of the lines. The use of
enjambment is appropriate in a poem about pushing forward “beyond
the utmost bound of human thought.” Finally, the poem is divided
into four paragraph-like sections, each of which comprises a distinct
thematic unit of the poem.
