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Yonder cloud That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a laboring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire.

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
Cloud
Laboring
Fire
Drag
Drags
Always
Breasts
Looming
Round
Onward
Upward
Rounds
Dreary
Fringed
Clouds
Rises
Bastion
West
Breast
Yonder
Higher

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O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.
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The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
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Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.
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Live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curled Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world.
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Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.
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Nor is it wiser to weep a true occasion lost, but trim our sails, and let old bygones be.
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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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Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.
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We needs must love the highest when we see it.
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Name and fame! to fly sublime Through the courts, the camps, the schools Is to be the ball of Time, Bandied in the hands of fools.
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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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I know transplanted human worth will bloom to profit otherwhere.
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Ring out the grief that saps the mind, for those that were here we see no more.
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The time draws near the birth of Christ The moon is hid the night is still The Christmas bells from hill to hill Answer each other in the mist.
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That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.
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Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hours will last.
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'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
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The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before Although the loss had brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more.
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Though much is taken, much abides and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
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Short swallow-flights of song, that dip Their wings in tears, and skim away.
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