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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.

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
Demon
Gospel
France
Rose
Shriek
Blood
Demos
Light
Celtic
Good
Preached
Men
Shown

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Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool.
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The woman's cause is man's. They rise or sink Together. / Dwarf'd or godlike, bound or free miserable, / How shall men grow? - Let her be / All that not harms distinctive womanhood.
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Of old sat Freedom on the heights The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights She heard the torrents meet.
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She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide The mirror crack'd from side to side The curse is come upon me, cried The Lady of Shalott.
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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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The same words conceal and declare the thoughts of men.
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Happy he With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him and tho' he trip and fall, He shall not blind his soul with clay.
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Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?
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There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun.
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The noonday quiet holds the hill.
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Arise, go forth, and conquer as of old.
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And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she follow'd him.
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Ring out the false, ring in the true.
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There she weaves by night and day, A magic web with colors gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay, To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott.
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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.
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This truth within thy mind rehearse, That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse.
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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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Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. Old year you must not die You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily, Old year you shall not die.
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Theirs is not to make reply: Theirs is not to reason why: Theirs is but to do and die.
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