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I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.

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
Sparkle
Valley
Valleys
Bicker
Sudden
Fern
Streams
Ferns
Among
Sally
Come
Make
Haunts

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Too much wit makes the world rotten.
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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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Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts Or all the same as if he had not been?
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Tho' much is taken, much abides.
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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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Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.
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Willows whiten, aspens quiver, little breezes dusk and shiver, thro' the wave that runs forever by the island in the river, flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls and four gray towers, overlook a space of flowers, and the silent isle imbowers, the Lady of Shalott.
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To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
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A classic lecture, rich in sentiment, With scraps of thundrous Epic lilted out By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies And quoted odes, and jewels five-words-long, That on the stretched forefinger of all Time Sparkle for ever.
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In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold
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Love is hurt with jar and fret Love is made a vague regret.
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And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech.
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A life of nothing's nothing worth, From that first nothing ere his birth, To that last nothing under earth.
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Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than the darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.
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To me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth.
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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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Oh yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill!
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Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster.
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We cannot be kind to each other here for even an hour. We whisper, and hint, and chuckle and grin at our brother's shame however you take it we men are a little breed.
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What rights are those that dare not resist for them?
Alfred Lord Tennyson