Welcome to Poetry.com

Poetry.com is a huge collection of poems from famous and amateur poets from around the world — collaboratively published by a community of authors and contributing editors.

Navigate through our poetry database by subjects, alphabetically or simply search by keywords. You can submit a new poem, discuss and rate existing work, listen to poems using voice pronunciation and even translate pieces to many common and not-so-common languages.


Lucilla, wedded to Lucretius, found
  Her master cold; for when the morning flush
  Of passion and the first embrace had died
  Between them, tho' he loved her none the less,
  Yet often when the woman heard his foot
  Return from pacings in the field, and ran
  To greet him with a kiss, the master took
  Small notice, or austerely, for his mind
  Half buried in some weightier argument,
  Or fancy-borne perhaps upon the rise
  And long roll of the hexameter -- he past
  To turn and ponder those three hundred scrolls
  Left by the Teacher, whom he held divine.
  She brook'd it not, but wrathful, petulant
  Dreaming some rival, sought and found a witch
  Who brew'd the philtre which had power, they said
  To lead an errant passion home again.
  And this, at times, she mingled with his drink,
  And this destroy'd him; for the wicked broth
  Confused the chemic labor of the blood,
  And tickling the brute brain within the man's
  Made havoc among those tender cells, and check'd
  His power to shape. He loathed himself, and once
  After a tempest woke upon a morn
  That mock'd him with returning calm, and cried:

  "Storm in the night! for thrice I heard the rain
  Rushing; and once the flash of a thunderbolt --
  Methought I never saw so fierce a fork --
  Struck out the streaming mountain-side, and show'd
  A riotous confluence of watercourses
  Blanching and billowing in a hollow of it,
  Where all but yester-eve was dusty-dry.

  "Storm, and what dreams, ye holy Gods, what dreams!
  For thrice I waken'd after dreams. Perchance
  We do but recollect the dreams that come
  Just ere the waking. Terrible: for it seem'd
  A void was made in Nature, all her bonds
  Crack'd; and I saw the flaring atom-streams
  And torrents of her myriad universe,
  Ruining along the illimitable inane,
  Fly on to clash together again, and make
  Another and another frame of things
  For ever. That was mine, my dream, I knew it --
  Of and belonging to me, as the dog
  With inward yelp and restless forefoot plies
  His function of the woodland; but the next!
  I thought that all the blood by Sylla shed
  Came driving rainlike down again on earth,
  And where it dash'd the reddening meadow, sprang
  No dragon warriors from Cadmean teeth,
  For these I thought my dream would show to me,
  But girls, Hetairai, curious in their art,
  Hired animalisms, vile as those that made
  The mulberry-faced Dictator's orgies worse
  Than aught they fable of the quiet Gods.
  And hands they mixt, and yell'd and round me drove
  In narrowing circles till I yell'd again
  Half-suffocated, and sprang up, and saw --
  Was it the first beam of my latest day?

  "Then, then, from utter gloom stood out the
  The breasts of Helen, and hoveringly a sword
  Now over and now under, now direct,
  Pointed itself to pierce, but sank down shamed
  At all that beauty; and as I stared, a fire,
  The fire that left a roofless Ilion,
  Shot out of them, and scorch'd me that I woke.

  "Is this thy vengeance, holy Venus, thine,
  Because I would not one of thine own doves,
  Not even a rose, were offered to thee? thine,
  Forgetful how my rich proemion makes
  Thy glory fly along the Italian field,
  In lays that will outlast thy deity?

  "Deity? nay, thy worshippers. My tongue
  Trips, or I speak profanely. Which of these
  Angers thee most, or angers thee at all?
  Not if thou be'st of those who, far aloof
  From envy, hate and pity, and spite and scorn,
  Live the great life which all our greatest fain
  Would follow, centred in eternal calm.

  "Nay, if thou canst,
 Goddess, like ourselves
  Touch, and be touch'd, then would I cry to thee
  To kiss thy Mavors, roll thy tender arms
  Round him, and keep him from the lust of blood
  That makes a steaming slaughter-house of Rome.
Rate this poem:(5.00 / 1 vote)
Font size:
Collection  Edit     

Submitted on May 13, 2011

3:21 min read

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron Tennyson, FRS was Poet Laureate of Great Britain and Ireland during much of Queen Victoria's reign and remains one of the most popular British poets.  more…

All Alfred Lord Tennyson poems | Alfred Lord Tennyson Books

FAVORITE (4 fans)

Discuss this Alfred Lord Tennyson poem with the community:



    Find a translation for this poem in other languages:

    Select another language:

    • - Select -
    • 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
    • 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
    • Español (Spanish)
    • Esperanto (Esperanto)
    • 日本語 (Japanese)
    • Português (Portuguese)
    • Deutsch (German)
    • العربية (Arabic)
    • Français (French)
    • Русский (Russian)
    • ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
    • 한국어 (Korean)
    • עברית (Hebrew)
    • Gaeilge (Irish)
    • Українська (Ukrainian)
    • اردو (Urdu)
    • Magyar (Hungarian)
    • मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
    • Indonesia (Indonesian)
    • Italiano (Italian)
    • தமிழ் (Tamil)
    • Türkçe (Turkish)
    • తెలుగు (Telugu)
    • ภาษาไทย (Thai)
    • Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
    • Čeština (Czech)
    • Polski (Polish)
    • Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
    • Românește (Romanian)
    • Nederlands (Dutch)
    • Ελληνικά (Greek)
    • Latinum (Latin)
    • Svenska (Swedish)
    • Dansk (Danish)
    • Suomi (Finnish)
    • فارسی (Persian)
    • ייִדיש (Yiddish)
    • հայերեն (Armenian)
    • Norsk (Norwegian)
    • English (English)


    Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:


    "Lucretius" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2021. Web. 2 Mar. 2021. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/1038/lucretius>.

    We need you!

    Help us build the largest poetry community and poems collection on the web!


    Are you a poetry master?

    Who was the first woman to win the Pulitzer Prize for poetry?
    • A. Edith Wharton
    • B. Edna St. Vincent Millay
    • C. Sara Teasdale
    • D. Mona Van Duyn

    Our favorite collection of

    Famous Poets


    Thanks for your vote! We truly appreciate your support.