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

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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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There rolls the deep where grew the tree. O earth, what changes hast thou seen! There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go.
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And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.
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God and Nature met in light.
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Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt.
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The folly of all follies is to be love sick for a shadow.
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God's finger touched him, and he slept.
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Once in a golden hour, I cast to earth a seed, And up there grew a flower, That others called a weed.
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The jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels.
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Where love could walk with banish'd Hope no more.
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Earth is dry to the centre, But spring, a new comer, A spring rich and strange, Shall make the winds blow Round and round, Thro' and thro', Here and there, Till the air And the ground Shall be fill'd with life anew.
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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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Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.
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The happiness of a man in this life does not consist in the absence but in the mastery of his passions.
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Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string? I am shamed through all my nature to have lov'd so slight a thing.
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And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
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He clasps the crag with crooked hands Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ringed with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.
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And others' follies teach us not, Nor much their wisdom teaches, And most, of sterling worth, is what Our own experience preaches.
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Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.
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Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone: And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown. For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky.
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