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Updated: May 6, 2025
I waited underneath the dawning hills, Aloft the mountain lawn was dewy-dark, And dewy-dark aloft the mountain pine: Beautiful Paris, evil-hearted Paris, Leading a jet-black goat, white-horned, white-hooved, Come up from reedy Simois, all alone. "'O Mother Ida, hearken ere I die. Far off the torrent called me from the cliff: Far up the solitary morning smote The streaks of virgin snow.
But in Tennyson's page the word is wonderful, as though it had never been dull: "The mountain lawn was dewy-dark." It is not that he brings the mountains too near or ranks them in his own peculiar garden-plot, but that the word withdraws, withdraws to summits, withdraws into dreams; the lawn is aloft, alone, and as wild as ancient snow.
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