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The night comes on that knows not morn, When I shall cease to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn.

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
Love
Cease
Forgotten
Shall
Alone
Comes
Death
Night
Morn
Live
Forlorn

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For this is England's greatest son, He that gain'd a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.
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If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance.
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We are ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times.
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The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind Hath fouled me.
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What's up is faith, what's down is heresy.
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Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool.
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The year is dying in the night.
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There rolls the deep where grew the tree. O earth, what changes hast thou seen! There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go.
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My life has crept so long on a broken wing Through cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing.
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Is there evil but on earth? Or pain in every peopled sphere? Well, be grateful for the sounding watchword Evolution here.
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Her court was pure, her life serene God gave her peace her land reposed A thousand claims to reverence closed.
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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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There lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds.
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We are all a part of every person we have ever met.
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Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand Ring out the darkness of the land Ring in the Christ that is to be.
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Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. News from the humming city comes to it It sound of funeral or of marriage bells.
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I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot.
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Can calm despair and wild unrest Be tenants of a single breast, Or sorrow such a changeling be?
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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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