We move, the wheel must always move,
Nor always on the plain,
And if we move to such a goal
As Wisdom hopes to gain,
Then you that drive, and know your craft,
Will firmly hold the rein,
Nor lend an ear to random cries,
Or you may drive in vain;
For some cry ‘Quick’ and some cry ‘Slow,’
But, while the hills remain,
Up hill ‘Too-slow' will need the whip,
Down hill ‘Too-quick’ the chain. 


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Return to the Alfred Lord Tennyson Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; Prefatory Poem To My Brother’s Sonnets

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