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Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.
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
Water
Join
May
River
Ever
Till
Come
Rivers
Men
Rain
Brimming
Flow
Philip
Lasts
Farm
Last
Farms
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The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.
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To me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth.
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Forgive! How many will say, forgive, and find a sort of absolution in the sound to hate a little longer!
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The quiet sense of something lost
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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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She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.
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Theirs is not to make reply: Theirs is not to reason why: Theirs is but to do and die.
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My doom is, I love thee still. Let no man dream but that I love thee still.
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I can't be anonymous by reason of your confounded photographs. (To Julia Margaret Cameron)
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Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
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The greater person is one of courtesy.
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That man's the best cosmopolite Who loves his native country best.
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Every man at time of Death, Would fain set forth some saying that may live After his death and better humankind For death gives life's last word a power to live, And, lie the stone-cut epitaph, remain After the vanished voice, and speak to men.
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The long mechanic pacings to and fro, The set, gray life, and apathetic end.
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Nor at all can tell Whether I mean this day to end myself, Or lend an ear to Plato where he says, That men like soldiers may not quit the post Allotted by the Gods.
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I do but sing because I must and pipe but as the linnets sing.
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All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again.
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So now I have sworn to bury All this dead body of hate I feel so free and so clear By the loss of that dead weight
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Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.
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