The full line reads: Theirs was not to make reply, Theirs was not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Cheery, huh? While Tennyson exalts these soldiers for their adherence to orders, the tone is still dubious, and when you apply this famous line to God, the redeemer of the universe looks more like a shortsighted commander ordering us to our deaths. No thank you. But how can we convey this sentiment without the harsh implications of the original expression?
While the added income was helping their financial situation, his hours and stress level were putting a strain on their relationship. A translation into simpler prose would be 'Our duty is merely to do what we are told to do even though we die as a result'. English is very good for re-arranging the order of words, and poetry is especially made up of re-arranged words.
Poets put the most meaning into the fewest words except perhaps for the 'poets' of the Poets' Corner' of the local newspaper William MacGonnegal whose name I can never spell. Get a new mixed Fun Trivia quiz each day in your email. It's a fun way to start your day! How can hexagons be used to explain the Pythagorean Theorem? Please don't try to explain what the theory is. Soldiers are trained not to question the reasons behind a command, but to obey that command when given:.
This does two things: it reinforces the idea that the soldiers were doing exactly what they are trained to do, and so they are free from blame; but through doing so, it reminds us squarely where the blame does belong, which is with those who gave the command. Enter your email address to subscribe to this site and receive notifications of new posts by email. Email Address. Interesting Literature is a participant in the Amazon EU Associates Programme, an affiliate advertising programme designed to provide a means for sites to earn advertising fees by linking to Amazon.
Such clouds of nameless trouble cross All night below the darkened eyes; With morning wakes the will, and cries, "Thou shalt not be the fool of loss. In Memoriam, Epilogue, [O true and tried, so well and long] O true and tried, so well and long, Demand not thou a marriage lay; In that it is thy marriage day Is music more than any song. Nor have I felt so much of bliss Since first he told me that he loved A daughter of our house; nor proved Since that dark day a day like this; Tho' I since then have number'd o'er Some thrice three years: they went and came, Remade the blood and changed the frame, And yet is love not less, but more; No longer caring to embalm In dying songs a dead regret, But like a statue solid-set, And moulded in colossal calm.
Regret is dead, but love is more Than in the summers that are flown, For I myself with these have grown To something greater than before; Which makes appear the songs I made As echoes out of weaker times, As half but idle brawling rhymes, The sport of random sun and shade.
But where is she, the bridal flower, That must be made a wife ere noon? She enters, glowing like the moon Of Eden on its bridal bower: On me she bends her blissful eyes And then on thee; they meet thy look And brighten like the star that shook Betwixt the palms of paradise. O when her life was yet in bud, He too foretold the perfect rose. For thee she grew, for thee she grows For ever, and as fair as good.
And thou art worthy; full of power; As gentle; liberal-minded, great, Consistent; wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower.
But now set out: the noon is near, And I must give away the bride; She fears not, or with thee beside And me behind her, will not fear. For I that danced her on my knee, That watch'd her on her nurse's arm, That shielded all her life from harm At last must part with her to thee; Now waiting to be made a wife, Her feet, my darling, on the dead Their pensive tablets round her head, And the most living words of life Breathed in her ear.
The ring is on, The 'wilt thou' answer'd, and again The 'wilt thou' ask'd, till out of twain Her sweet 'I will' has made you one. Now sign your names, which shall be read, Mute symbols of a joyful morn, By village eyes as yet unborn; The names are sign'd, and overhead Begins the clash and clang that tells The joy to every wandering breeze; The blind wall rocks, and on the trees The dead leaf trembles to the bells.
O happy hour, and happier hours Await them. Many a merry face Salutes them? O happy hour, behold the bride With him to whom her hand I gave.
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