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All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd To the dancers dancing in tune Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon.
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
Bird
Waking
Flute
Dance
Dancer
Flutes
Moon
Settings
Hush
Silence
Fell
Dancers
Heard
Till
Violin
Night
Setting
Roses
Casement
Dancing
Tune
Bassoon
Rose
Tunes
Jessamine
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By blood a king, in heart a clown.
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I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men.
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Cast all your cares on God that anchor holds.
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And every dew-drop paints a bow.
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I loved you, and my love had no return, And therefore my true love has been my death.
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My mind is clouded with a doubt.
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I can't sleep without knowing there's hope. Half the night I waste in sighs. In a wakeful doze I sorrow. For the hands, for the lips... the eyes. For the meeting of tomorrow.
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O son, thou hast not true humility, The highest virtue, mother of them all But her thou hast not know for what is this? Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself.
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Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
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The bearing and the training of a child Is woman's wisdom.
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The passionate heart of the poet is whirled into folly and vice.
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Some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs.
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Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.
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Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
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For I dipped into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.
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Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, Before a thousand peering littlenesses, In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, And blackens every blot.
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Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.
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How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life.
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