Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,
And waves that sway themselves in rest,
And dead calm in that noble breast
Which heaves but with the heaving deep.
First in these lines is apparent a poetic virtue of which Tennyson was an almost constant master, the faculty for seeing a natural object in minutely exact definition. “Thro’ the faded leaf The chestnut pattering to the ground,” the “dews that drench the furze,” the whole of the third stanza, the “waves that sway themselves in rest,” each phrase is incontrovertible evidence of a thing personally seen with creative intensity. In the first of these examples we see how Tennyson could manage that elaboration of the simple statement, which is the first of the four problems that have been discussed as awaiting him. If Chaucer had been presenting an autumn landscape—which, in his preoccupation with spring, he very rarely did—and had wanted to use foliage as a figure, he would almost certainly have been content with “the faded leaf” without embellishment, and from his tongue the economy would have been convincing. But by Tennyson’s time the phrase by itself would have been something barren, and it needed fertilising by some further imaginative life. To the simple image Tennyson adds another, and together they brighten into one perfect realisation. Faded leaves, falling chestnuts—there for any schoolboy’s observation, and yet, placed thus exactly, the witnesses of a rich poetic power in full exercise. And whenever Tennyson felt called upon to intensify the simple statement of a natural object, he was able to do it by reference to his own vivid experience, and thus to deal satisfactorily with the problem in question, and also, so far as the delineation of landscape (as apart from the further questions of human emotion and character) was concerned, to keep his yellow sands away from coral. If he wants to speak of marshy waste-lands, the “glooming flats” of Lincolnshire are to mind for his purpose, and the “glooming” is the signature written at once; if the violets were to blow, he had seen them “thick by ashen roots”; and even the familiar poppy in sleep he has seen precisely hanging from “the craggy ledge.” I have said that Tennyson heightened his images in this way whenever he felt called upon to do so—called upon, that is to say, by the unaccountable poetic impulse. It was, even with so deliberate an artist, no matter of course to do this, and he was often, and by a just instinct, content to leave the simple image in its simplicity, though he would be careful not to leave it unfortified by some such intensification near at hand. Love is to be looked for not only “by the happy threshold” but also
hand in hand with Plenty in the maize,
Or red with spirted purple of the vats,
Or foxlike in the vine ...
though sometimes the poet leaves magic to the barest statement with an entirely just confidence, as in—
And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea ...