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The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear.
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
Joy
Hymns
Full
Hidden
Clear
Wild
Death
Lows
Place
Ears
Warble
Soul
Sorrow
Hymn
Firsts
Waste
Swan
First
Took
Swans
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The passionate heart of the poet is whirled into folly and vice.
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What rights are those that dare not resist for them?
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What! I should call on that Infinite Love that has served us so well? Infinite cruelty rather, that made everlasting hell, Made us, foreknew us, foredoom'd us, and does what he will with his own Better our dead brute mother who never has heard us groan.
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I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul
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Come, my friends Tis not too late to seek a newer world Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die
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Life is brief but love is LONG .
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If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance.
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Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moans of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.
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Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was love.
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So now I have sworn to bury All this dead body of hate I feel so free and so clear By the loss of that dead weight
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She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room
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...and our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips.
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Nor is it wiser to weep a true occasion lost, but trim our sails, and let old bygones be.
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The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
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Sin is too stupid to see beyond itself.
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The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind Hath fouled me.
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Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string? I am shamed through all my nature to have lov'd so slight a thing.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
The mirror crack'd from side to side The curse has come upon me, cried The Lady of Shalott
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Love will conquer at the last.
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The last great Englishman is low.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
