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Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side ? Is there no baseness we would hide ? No inner vileness that we dread ? How many a father have I seen A sober man, among his boys Whose youth was full of foolish noise.

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
Father
Youth
Hide
Stills
Boys
Near
Still
Dead
Foolish
Many
Side
Noise
Would
Full
Indeed
Vileness
Men
Sides
Inner
Baseness
Seen
Whose
Sober
Desire
Among
Dread

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All precious things, discover'd late, To those that seek them issue forth, For love in sequel works with fate, And draws the veil from hidden worth.
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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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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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An English homegrey twilight poured On dewy pasture, dewy trees, Softer than sleepall things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.
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Manners are not idle, but the fruit of loyal and of noble mind.
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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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The noonday quiet holds the hill.
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God made thee good as thou art beautiful.
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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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A louse in the locks of literature.
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Too much wit makes the world rotten.
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How fares it with the happy dead?
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He makes no friend who never made a foe.
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All things human change.
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The same words conceal and declare the thoughts of men.
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Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to towered Camelot.
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There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass.
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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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It was my duty to have loved the highest It surely was my profit had I known: It would have been my pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it, Not Lancelot, nor another.
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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.
Alfred Lord Tennyson