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So I find every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber, and the street, For all is dark where thou art not
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
Dark
Spots
Art
Pleasant
Two
Thou
Find
Field
Every
Street
Fields
Wont
Meet
Chamber
Streets
Spot
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I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.
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Thou madest man, he knows not why, he thinks he was not made to die.
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And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears!
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I cannot rest from travel I will drink Life to the lees.
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Oh yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill!
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Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.
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It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.
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He clasps the crag with crooked hands Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ringed with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.
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The song that nerves a nation's heart is in itself a deed.
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I am on fire within. There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my sin, And save me lest I die?
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For this alone on Death I wreak The wrath that garners in my heart: He put our lives so far apart We cannot hear each other speak.
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A lie that is half-truth is the darkest of all lies.
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Hope Smiles from the threshold of the year to come, Whispering 'it will be happier'.
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All precious things, discover'd late, To those that seek them issue forth, For love in sequel works with fate, And draws the veil from hidden worth.
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A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier times.
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But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.
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Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was love.
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I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.
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This truth within thy mind rehearse, That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse.
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