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Red of the Dawn Is it turning a fainter red? so be it, but when shall we lay The ghost of the Brute that is walking and hammering us yet and be free?

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
Shall
Brute
Freedom
Brutes
Free
Dawn
Turning
Ghost
Lays
Red
Fainter
Walking
Hammering

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But what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.
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He that wrongs a friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar ever condemned.
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Happy days roll onward leading up to golden years.
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Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.
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My purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the Western stars until I die.
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All experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untravelled world whose margin fades for ever and for ever when I move.
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For this is England's greatest son, He that gain'd a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.
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And every dew-drop paints a bow.
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From yon blue heavens above us bent The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.
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I am any man's suitor, If any will be my tutor: Some say this life is pleasant, Some think it speedeth fast, In time there is no present, In eternity no future, In eternity no past. We laugh, we cry, we are born, we die. Who will riddle me the how and the why?
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You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad New Year,- Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest, merriest day For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be queen o' the May.
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And down I went to fetch my bride: But, Alice, you were ill at ease This dress and that by turns you tried, Too fearful that you should not please. I loved you better for your fears, I knew you could not look but well And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell.
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Shall the hag Evil die with the child of Good, Or propagate again her loathèd kind, Thronging the cells of the diseased mind, Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered brood, Though hourly pastured on the salient blood?
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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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God gives us love! Something to love He lends us but when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone: This is the curse of time.
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Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster.
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In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
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