Hi Joanna,
Oh, I went and looked this up. As near as I can tell, "come into the garden,
Maud" is late in the first part of the long poem, "Maud: A Monodrama" and it's
just as you say about the brother. Though "come into the garden, Maud" is
sometimes given as a separate poem, perhaps in the usual way, some sections
of sequences go independent. Here's a link for the whole thing, if anyone wants
a dose of Tennyson
http://home.att.net/~TennysonPoetry/mm.htm
best,
Rebecca
---- Original message ----
>Date: Tue, 4 Jan 2005 14:55:26 -0000
>From: Joanna Boulter <[log in to unmask]>
>Subject: Re: Something (was Re: The suckability of contemporary American
poetry)
>To: [log in to unmask]
>
>As far as I remember it, admittedly from a good many years back, the 'Come
>into the garden, Maud' bit is the song or what-have-you the bloke
>sings/recites while waiting 'by the gate alone' for her to come out. Then he
>gets found by her brother and kills him, hence the guilt that haunts the
>dreadful hollow.
>
>best joanna
>
>----- Original Message -----
>From: "Rebecca Seiferle" <[log in to unmask]>
>To: <[log in to unmask]>
>Sent: Tuesday, January 04, 2005 2:17 PM
>Subject: Re: Something (was Re: The suckability of contemporary American
>poetry)
>
>
>> Ah, that's very funny, Alison, that 'thousand years of Tennyson' and that
>"we all
>> thought he was a golfer."
>>
>> Well, there are 7 stanzas in "Mariana" all ending with the 'a-weary,
>a-weary
>> lament' and perhaps at the age of 12 that would seem a near-infinitude of
>> wearisomeness.
>>
>> Though I wonder this morning if it may be not just two poems that were
>> confused but three? For the Maud of "Come into the Garden, Maud," isn't
>> neurasthenic; she just never shows up, being in the house, dancing with
>all the
>> guests, we never see her in the poem, though the speaker conversing with
>the
>> flowers may be neurasthenic. So perhaps the neurasthenic you were
>thinking of
>> is in Tennyson's "Maud: A Monodrama" that long sequence in three parts
>which
>> begins
>>
>> I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood,
>> Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath,
>> The red-ribb’d ledges drip with a silent horror of blood,
>> And Echo there, whatever is ask’d her, answers ‘Death.’.
>>
>> Enough to convey what follows, haha, well, perhaps it is very difficult to
>keep
>> these Victorian ladies and poems straight, a thousand years of blur,
>>
>> Best,
>>
>> Rebecca
>>
>> ---- Original message ----
>> >Date: Tue, 4 Jan 2005 20:44:18 +1100
>> >From: Alison Croggon <[log in to unmask]>
>> >Subject: Something (was Re: The suckability of contemporary American
>poetry)
>> >To: [log in to unmask]
>> >
>> >Thanks for complementing my laziness, Rebecca, and actually looking
them
>> up:
>> >yes, I remember now: Maude and Mariana, exemplary neurasthenic
Victorian
>> >ladies...no wonder I confused them. Interesting how my memory drew out
>> >those weary weary laments, but they're still fairly wearisome.
>> >
>> >While I'm rummaging through my dusty attic, I remember also a poem by
>> Adrian
>> >Mitchell (?), The Oxford History of English Poetry or somesuch, in which
>the
>> >verse on Tennyson goes something like
>> >
>> >And then there were about a thousand years of Tennyson.
>> >Funny, really.
>> >We all thought he was a golfer.
>> >
>> >Best
>> >
>> >A
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> >
>> >Alison Croggon
>> >
>> >Blog: http://theatrenotes.blogspot.com
>> >Editor, Masthead: http://masthead.net.au
>> >Home page: http://alisoncroggon.com
>>
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