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Many a night I saw the Pleiads, Rising thro' the mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies, Tangled in a silver braid.

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
Fire
Tangled
Stars
Glitter
Universe
Flies
Braid
Science
Shade
Thro
Night
Silver
Braids
Many
Rising
Swarm
Like
Saws
Swarms
Mystery
Mellow

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Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.
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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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I waited for the train at Coventry I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge, To watch the three tall spires and there I shaped The city's ancient legend into this.
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It is unconceivable that the whole Universe was merely created for us who live in this third-rate planet of a third-rate moon.
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And ah for a man to arise in me, That the man I am may cease to be!
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O hark,O hear! how thin and clear And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
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Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.
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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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This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty such as lurks In some wild poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim.
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Oh for someone with a heart, head and hand. Whatever they call them, what do I care, aristocrat, democrat, autocrat, just be it one that can rule and dare not lie.
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For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry.
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For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.
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Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of: Wherefore, let they voice, Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
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On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God, Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption.
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Life is not as idle ore, But iron dug from central gloom, And heated hot with burning fears, And dipt in baths of hissing tears, And batter'd with the shocks of doom, To shape and use.
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O Love! they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying! And answer, echoes, answer! dying, dying, dying.
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It's better to have tried and failed than to live life wondering what would've happened if I had tried
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Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new, That which they have done but earnest of the things which they shall do.
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Come, my friends Tis not too late to seek a newer world Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die
Alfred Lord Tennyson