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A pasty costly-made, Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and injellied.

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
Lays
Quails
Golden
Lark
Cooking
Larks
Rock
Pigeon
Yolks
Rocks
Pigeons
Pasty
Food
Costly
Imbedded
Made
Fossils
Pasties
Like
Culinary
Quail

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Love lieth deep Love dwells not in lip-depths Love laps his wings on either side the heart Absorbing all the incense of sweet thoughts, So that they pass not to the shrine of sound.
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That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break.
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All is well, tho' faith and form Be sunder'd in the night of fear.
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Not once or twice in our rough island story, The path of duty was the way to glory.
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And was the day of my delight As pure and perfect as I say?
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A smile abroad is often a scowl at home.
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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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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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The long day wanes the slow moon climbs the deep.
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The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul of a man, And the man said, Am I your debtor? And the Lord--Not yet: but make it as clean as you can, And then I will let you a better.
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What rights are those that dare not resist for them?
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My purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the Western stars until I die.
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Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.
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It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round.
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How fares it with the happy dead?
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Sweet were the days when I was all unknown, But when my name was lifted up, the storm Brake on the mountain and I cared not for it. Right well know I that fame is half disfame.
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A still small voice spake unto me, 'Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?
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I cannot rest from travel I will drink Life to the lees.
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