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I have led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none, And never yet so warmly ran my blood, And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wished for end, Full to the banks, close on the prom- ised good.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Alfred Lord Tennyson
Age: 83 †
Born: 1809
Born: August 6
Died: 1892
Died: October 6
Poet
Politician
Writer
Somersby
Lincolnshire
Alfred Tennyson
1st Baron Tennyson
Lord Alfred Tennyson
Alcibiades
A. Tennyson
Alfred Tennyson
Baron Tennyson
Alfred Tennyson Tennyson
Tennyson
1st Baron Tennyson of Aldworth and Freshwater Alfred Tennyson
Alfred Tennyson d'Eyncourt
Lord Tennyson Alfred
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Alfred
Lord Tennyson
Like
Blood
Calming
Full
Prom
Ends
Wished
Home
Banks
Long
Ran
Good
None
Never
Close
Warmly
Love
Friend
Sweetly
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And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she follow'd him.
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There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass.
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A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier times.
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Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hours will last.
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God made thee good as thou art beautiful.
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What! I should call on that Infinite Love that has served us so well? Infinite cruelty rather, that made everlasting hell, Made us, foreknew us, foredoom'd us, and does what he will with his own Better our dead brute mother who never has heard us groan.
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And on her lover's arm she leant, And round her waist she felt it fold, And far across the hills they went In that new world which is the old.
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Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string? I am shamed through all my nature to have lov'd so slight a thing.
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There rolls the deep where grew the tree. O earth, what changes hast thou seen! There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go.
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I came in haste with cursing breath, And heart of hardest steel But when I saw thee cold in death, I felt as man should feel. For when I look upon that face, That cold, unheeding, frigid brown, Where neither rage nor fear has place, By Heaven! I cannot hate thee now!
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But the churchmen fain would kill their church, As the churches have kill'd their Christ.
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Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moans of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.
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This barren verbiage, current among men, Light coin, the tinsel clink of compliment.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.
Alfred Lord Tennyson