Quote

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.

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
Wells
Rounds
Blackbird
Well
Neighbor
Blackbirds
Something
Thou
Fruitful
Thee
Dwell
Sing
Neighbors
Ground
Smooth
Keep
Shoot
May
Round
Warble

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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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I am going a long way With these thou seëst-if indeed I go (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)- To the island-valley of Avilion, Where falls not hail or rain or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.
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I came in haste with cursing breath, And heart of hardest steel But when I saw thee cold in death, I felt as man should feel. For when I look upon that face, That cold, unheeding, frigid brown, Where neither rage nor fear has place, By Heaven! I cannot hate thee now!
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This world was once a fluid haze of light, Till toward the centre set the starry tides, And eddied into suns, that wheeling cast The planets: then the monster, then the man.
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The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world.
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Man is man, and master of his fate.
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The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.
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the shell must break before the bird can fly.
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Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar When I put out to sea.
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France had shown a light to all men, preached a Gospel, all men's good Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek'd and slaked the light with blood.
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So many worlds, so much to do, so little done, such things to be.
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The mighty hopes that make us men.
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What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?
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That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.
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And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.
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I have led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none, And never yet so warmly ran my blood, And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wished for end, Full to the banks, close on the prom- ised good.
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Red of the Dawn Is it turning a fainter red? so be it, but when shall we lay The ghost of the Brute that is walking and hammering us yet and be free?
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Gorgonised me from head to foot With a stony British stare.
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The many fail: the one succeeds.
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There lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds.
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