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Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.

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
Space
Grey
Walls
Lady
Flowers
Silent
Aspens
Flower
Isle
Wall
Overlook
Four
Towers

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In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold
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Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
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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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Our little systems have their day They have their day and cease to be… And thou, O Lord, art more than they.
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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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That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.
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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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But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
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The white flower of a blameless life.
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O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies, O skilled to sing of Time or Eternity, God-gifted organ-voice of England, Milton, a name to resound for ages.
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Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd On lips that are for others deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret O Death in Life, the days that are no more!
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For I dipped into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.
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The world which credits what is done is cold to all that might have been.
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O Love! they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying! And answer, echoes, answer! dying, dying, dying.
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The long mechanic pacings to and fro, The set, gray life, and apathetic end.
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You may tell me that my hand and foot are only imaginary symbols of my existence. I could believe you, but you never, never can convince me that the I is not an eternal reality, and that the spiritual is not the true and real part of me.
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All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.
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Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depths of some devine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.
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Jewels five-words-long, That on the stretch'd forefinger of all Time Sparkle forever.
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How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise.
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