De Profundis (Written in 1880, on the birth of his grandson) by Alfred Tennyson (Poem, Summary, Paraphrase & Analysis)

 

De Profundis (Written in 1880, on the birth of his grandson)

by Alfred Tennyson

(Poem, Summary, Paraphrase & Analysis) 

De Profundis

I. The Two Voices

Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep,

Where all that was to be, in all that was,

Whirl’d for a million æons thro’ the vast

Waste dawn of multitudinous-eddying light—

Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep,

Thro’ all this changing world of changeless law,

And every phase of ever-heightening life,

And nine long months of antenatal night,

With this last moon that sends my buried shore

Far-flashing messages of light—no more—

Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep,

From that true world within the world we see,

Whereof our world is but the bounding shore—

Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep,

I come.

II. The Human Cry

Ah, little babe, so bonny and so red,

What know’st thou of the wonder overhead?

What know’st thou of the vast abysmal dark

Whence thy small being sparkled like a spark?

What know’st thou of the enormous forces pent

Within the circle of thine innocent

And laughing eyes? What know’st thou of the sea

Of love that wells within and roundeth thee?

What know’st thou of the sin and of the shame

That thou wast born into, and of the flame

Of righteous wrath that shall consume the same?

What know’st thou of the glory and the grace

That shall transfigure all this human race?

What know’st thou, babe, what know’st thou?

III. The Higher Pantheon

But thou shalt know hereafter,

When thy small feet are set

On broader ways than ours;

When thou hast left the fret

Of this low earth, and found

The larger air around

The hills of God, and heard

The choral worlds that sing

The Eternal’s praise, and seen

The lightning of the King

Flash round the crystal ring

Of Seraphim and Cherubim,

And all the burning host

That live in light, and love

The Everlasting Lord—

Then thou shalt know, my child,

Then thou shalt know.

IV. The Child’s Heritage

Meanwhile, sleep on, sleep on,

Till the new day be born;

Sleep, till the marriage morn

Of thine own life shall break

In light upon the lake

Of thine own being, and the sun

Of thine own soul arise

To warm thee with his eyes,

And all the world grow bright

With the new marriage light

Of thine own spirit’s love.

Sleep on, sleep on,

Till the great noon be high,

And the great Bridegroom cry,

“Arise, my love, my dove,

And come away!”

Summary

A child is born.

From the vast, swirling depths of eternity (where light and time churned for countless ages), a tiny life emerges. It has journeyed through the unchanging laws of the universe, through seasons of growth hidden in darkness for nine long months, until at last, with the flash of a final moon, it breaks into the world we see. The child comes from a truer world beyond this one, a world of which our own is only the shore.

The infant lies cradled, rosy and laughing, eyes sparkling like sudden stars. Yet it knows nothing of the abyss it left behind, nor the immense forces coiled within its small frame. It does not yet feel the tide of love surrounding it, nor sense the shadow of sin and shame it was born into, nor the fire of justice that will one day burn them away. It cannot foresee the glory and grace that will one day lift the whole human family into light.

But the child will know—all of it—in time.

When its feet walk wider paths than ours, when it climbs beyond the noise and dust of earth into the clear, high air of God’s hills, it will hear the chorus of worlds singing praise. It will see the lightning of the King flash among the shining ranks of angels—Seraphim, Cherubim, and all the hosts of fire and light who love the Eternal Lord. Then, and only then, will the child understand.

For now, it sleeps.

It sleeps through the quiet hours, waiting for its own dawn—the morning when its life will marry its soul in sudden, blazing light. The sun of its spirit will rise, warming everything. The world will glow with the fresh radiance of its awakening love.

And one day, at the great noon of existence, a voice will call across the stillness:

“Arise, my love, my dove, and come away!”

Until then—the child sleeps, and the deep keeps its secrets.

 

Line-by-line Paraphrase

I. The Two Voices

Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep,

-> From the vast depths, my child, from the vast depths,

Where all that was to be, in all that was,

-> Where everything destined to exist was already present within everything that existed,

Whirl’d for a million æons thro’ the vast

-> Spun and circled for countless ages through the immense

Waste dawn of multitudinous-eddying light—

-> Empty, glowing beginning filled with countless swirling rays of light—

Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep,

-> From the vast depths, my child, from the vast depths,

Thro’ all this changing world of changeless law,

-> Through this ever-shifting world governed by unchanging rules,

And every phase of ever-heightening life,

-> And every stage of life that keeps rising higher and higher,

And nine long months of antenatal night,

-> And nine long months of darkness before birth,

With this last moon that sends my buried shore

-> With this final moon that flashes messages of light to my hidden boundary

Far-flashing messages of light—no more—

-> Bright signals from afar—and nothing more—

Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep,

-> From the vast depths, my child, from the vast depths,

From that true world within the world we see,

-> From that real inner world that lies inside the visible one,

Whereof our world is but the bounding shore—

-> Of which our world is only the outer edge or coastline—

Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep,

-> From the vast depths, my child, from the vast depths,

I come.

-> I arrive.

 

II. The Human Cry

Ah, little babe, so bonny and so red,

-> Oh, little baby, so beautiful and rosy,

What know’st thou of the wonder overhead?

-> What do you know of the amazing things above you?

What know’st thou of the vast abysmal dark

-> What do you know of the huge, bottomless darkness

Whence thy small being sparkled like a spark?

-> From which your tiny existence flashed into being like a spark?

What know’st thou of the enormous forces pent

-> What do you know of the immense powers locked

Within the circle of thine innocent

-> Inside the circle of your innocent

And laughing eyes?

-> And laughing eyes?

What know’st thou of the sea

-> What do you know of the ocean

Of love that wells within and roundeth thee?

-> Of love that rises within you and surrounds you?

What know’st thou of the sin and of the shame

-> What do you know of the sin and the shame

That thou wast born into, and of the flame

-> That you were born into, and of the fire

Of righteous wrath that shall consume the same?

-> Of just anger that will one day burn them away?

What know’st thou of the glory and the grace

-> What do you know of the glory and the grace

That shall transfigure all this human race?

-> That will transform the entire human family?

What know’st thou, babe, what know’st thou?

-> What do you know, baby, what do you know?

 

III. The Higher Pantheon

But thou shalt know hereafter,

-> But you will know in the future,

When thy small feet are set

-> When your little feet are placed

On broader ways than ours;

-> On wider paths than ours;

When thou hast left the fret

-> When you have left behind the worry

Of this low earth, and found

-> Of this low earth, and discovered

The larger air around

-> The greater, freer air surrounding

The hills of God, and heard

-> The hills of God, and heard

The choral worlds that sing

-> The harmonious worlds that sing

The Eternal’s praise, and seen

-> Praise to the Eternal One, and seen

The lightning of the King

-> The lightning of the King

Flash round the crystal ring

-> Flash around the clear circle

Of Seraphim and Cherubim,

-> Of Seraphim and Cherubim,

And all the burning host

-> And all the fiery host

That live in light, and love

-> That live in light and love

The Everlasting Lord—

-> The Everlasting Lord—

Then thou shalt know, my child,

-> Then you will know, my child,

Then thou shalt know.

-> Then you will know.

 

IV. The Child’s Heritage

Meanwhile, sleep on, sleep on,

-> For now, keep sleeping, keep sleeping,

Till the new day be born;

-> Until the new day begins;

Sleep, till the marriage morn

-> Sleep until the morning of union

Of thine own life shall break

-> Of your own life breaks

In light upon the lake

-> In light upon the surface

Of thine own being, and the sun

-> Of your own being, and the sun

Of thine own soul arise

-> Of your own soul rises

To warm thee with his eyes,

-> To warm you with its gaze,

And all the world grow bright

-> And the whole world becomes bright

With the new marriage light

-> With the fresh light of union

Of thine own spirit’s love.

-> Of your own spirit’s love.

Sleep on, sleep on,

-> Keep sleeping, keep sleeping,

Till the great noon be high,

-> Until the great midday is at its peak,

And the great Bridegroom cry,

-> And the great Bridegroom calls out,

“Arise, my love, my dove,

-> “Rise, my love, my dove,

And come away!”

-> And come with me!”

 

Analysis in Detail

Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s De Profundis (1880) is a profound meditation on birth, existence, and spiritual destiny, framed as a father’s (or grandfather’s) address to a newborn child. Written on the occasion of his grandson’s birth, the poem fuses cosmic grandeur with intimate tenderness, weaving together scientific, philosophical, and theological threads into a visionary hymn. Far from a mere lullaby, it is a metaphysical journey—from the primordial abyss to the eschatological marriage of soul and eternity—cast in four distinct movements that mirror stages of human and cosmic awakening.

 

I. The Cosmic Prelude: Birth as Emergence from the Abyss

The poem opens with a refrain that reverberates like a liturgical chant: “Out of the deep, my child, out of the deep.” This is not mere repetition but a structural and thematic anchor, echoing Psalm 130 (De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine) while expanding its scope beyond personal lament into universal ontology. The “deep” is both literal and metaphorical: the womb, the evolutionary past, the pre-cosmic void. Tennyson, writing in the wake of Darwin and Lyell, imagines the child’s origin in a “million æons” of “multitudinous-eddying light”—a striking fusion of biblical imagery and nebular cosmology. The phrase “waste dawn” evokes both Genesis and the scientific sublime: a formless, glowing chaos pregnant with potential.

The child’s nine-month gestation is rendered as “antenatal night,” a darkness not of absence but of incubation, culminating in the “last moon” that flashes “far-flashing messages of light.” Here, Tennyson suggests a continuity between prenatal and cosmic signaling—lunar phases as telegrams from the unseen. The world we inhabit is merely the “bounding shore” of a truer reality within, a Platonic inversion where the visible is shadow and the invisible, substance. The speaker’s final “I come” is both the child’s arrival and a declaration of shared origin: parent and child emerge together from the same metaphysical deep.

 

II. The Human Paradox: Innocence Amid Inherited Burden

The second movement shifts from cosmic to human scale, addressing the infant directly in a cascade of rhetorical questions: “What know’st thou…?” The child, “bonny and so red,” is a paradox—radiant yet ignorant, a “spark” from the “abysmal dark,” encircled by forces it cannot comprehend. Tennyson layers meaning into the infant’s eyes: they are “innocent” yet contain “enormous forces pent,” suggesting both latent divinity and the compressed energy of evolution.

The questions escalate from wonder to moral weight. The child is born into a world of “sin and shame,” yet also into a “sea of love” and the promise of a “flame of righteous wrath” that will purify. This is Tennyson’s post-Christian eschatology: not original sin as damnation, but as a temporary veil to be burned away by divine justice and grace. The final question—“What know’st thou of the glory and the grace / That shall transfigure all this human race?”—elevates the child from passive inheritor to active participant in humanity’s redemption. Ignorance is not condemnation but a necessary prelude to revelation.

 

III. The Apocalyptic Vision: Knowledge Beyond the Veil

The third section pivots from questioning to prophecy: “But thou shalt know hereafter.” The child’s future is not merely personal but transpersonal, a ascent beyond “this low earth” to “the hills of God.” Tennyson’s imagery here is unabashedly apocalyptic: “choral worlds,” “lightning of the King,” a “crystal ring” of Seraphim and Cherubim. Yet this is no medieval tableau; it is dynamic, electrified, almost Wagnerian in its grandeur. The “burning host” that “live in light” recalls Milton but is tempered by Tennyson’s evolutionary optimism: the child will not merely witness but join this celestial hierarchy.

The phrase “broader ways than ours” is key. It acknowledges generational progress—not just spiritual but intellectual and moral. The child will surpass its elders, not through rebellion but through fuller participation in the divine order. Knowledge, in Tennyson’s view, is not static doctrine but experiential communion with the “Eternal’s praise.” The repeated “Then thou shalt know” functions as both promise and benediction, sealing the child’s destiny with rhythmic finality.

 

IV. The Mystical Union: Sleep as Preparation for Awakening

The final movement returns to the cradle, but the tone has shifted from cosmic thunder to lyrical intimacy. The child is urged to “sleep on, sleep on” until its own “marriage morn”—a metaphor drawn from the Song of Solomon but reimagined as the soul’s union with itself. The “lake of thine own being” reflects the “sun of thine own soul,” suggesting self-knowledge as a form of divine reflection. This is Tennyson’s answer to Romantic solipsism: the self is not isolated but illuminated by an inner light that mirrors the cosmic.

The climax arrives with the Bridegroom’s call—“Arise, my love, my dove, and come away!”—a direct quotation from Song of Solomon 2:10, now universalized. The “great noon” is both personal fulfillment and cosmic consummation, the moment when individual awakening merges with the eschatological wedding feast. Until then, sleep is not passivity but sacred gestation, a second womb preparing the soul for its final birth.

 

Synthesis: A Poem of Becoming

De Profundis is Tennyson’s most ambitious synthesis of science, faith, and poetry. It reconciles Darwinian deep time with Christian teleology, evolutionary struggle with mystical transcendence. The child is microcosm and messiah, a spark from the abyss destined for the throne room of God. The poem’s structure—refrain, interrogation, vision, lullaby—mirrors the soul’s journey from origin to destiny, while its language oscillates between the sublime and the tender, the astronomical and the maternal.

Ultimately, Tennyson offers not certainty but hope: the child sleeps in a world of shadows, but the light is coming. The “deep” that gave it birth will one day receive it back—not as loss, but as return. In this, De Profundis is less a poem about a baby than a prayer for humanity: that we, too, may awaken from our antenatal night into the marriage morning of the soul.