Category Alfred, Lord Tennyson

You cast to ground the hope which once was mine,But did the while your harsh decree deplore,Embalming with sweet tears the vacant shrine,My heart, where Hope had been and was no more. So on an oaken sproutA goodly acorn grew;But…

In an unpublished drama written very early. The varied earth, the moving heaven,        The rapid waste of roving sea,The fountainpregnant mountains riven        To shapes of wildest anarchy,By secret fire and midnight storms        That wander round their windy cones,The subtle life, the countless forms        Of…

Ere yet my heart was sweet Love’s tomb,Love laboured honey busily.I was the hive and Love the bee,My heart the honey-comb.One very dark and chilly nightPride came beneath and held a light. The cruel vapours went through all,Sweet Love was…

I Voice of the summerwind,Joy of the summerplain,Life of the summerhours,Carol clearly, bound along.No Tithon thou as poets feign(Shame fall ’em they are deaf and blind)But an insect lithe and strong,Bowing the seeded summerflowers.Prove their falsehood and thy quarrel,Vaulting on…

Angels have talked with him, and showed him thrones:Ye knew him not: he was not one of ye,Ye scorned him with an undiscerning scorn:Ye could not read the marvel in his eye,The still serene abstraction; he hath feltThe vanities of…

Oh go not yet, my love,The night is dark and vast;The white moon is hid in her heaven above,And the waves climb high and fast.Oh! kiss me, kiss me, once again,Lest thy kiss should be the last.Oh kiss me ere…

When will the stream be aweary of flowingUnder my eye?When will the wind be aweary of blowingOver the sky?When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting?When will the heart be aweary of beating?And nature die?Never, oh! never, nothing will die;The…

Every day hath its night:Every night its morn:Thorough dark and brightWingèd hours are borne;Ah! welaway! Seasons flower and fade;Golden calm and stormMingle day by day.There is no bright formDoth not cast a shade—Ah! welaway! II When we laugh, and our…

The lintwhite and the throstlecockHave voices sweet and clear;All in the bloomed May.They from the blosmy brereCall to the fleeting year,If that he would them hearAnd stay. Alas! that one so beautifulShould have so dull an ear. II Fair year,…

I I’ the glooming lightOf middle nightSo cold and white,Worn Sorrow sits by the moaning wave;Beside her are laidHer mattock and spade,For she hath half delved her own deep grave.Alone she is there:The white clouds drizzle: her hair falls loose;Her…