Epitaph On Caxton

Thy prayer was Light-more Light-while Time shall last!
Thou rawest a glory growing on the night,
But not the shadows which that light would cast,
Till shadows vanish in the Light of Light.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Alfred Lord Tennyson was a renowned British poet of the Victorian era, born on August 6, 1809, in Somersby, Lincolnshire. He is best known for his works like 'In Memoriam A.H.H.', 'The Charge of the Light Brigade', and 'Ulysses'. As one of the most popular poets of his time, he was appointed Poet Laureate of Great Britain and Ireland in 1850. Tennyson's poetry is characterized by its rich imagery, deep emotion, and classical themes. He passed away on October 6, 1892.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Flower

Alfred Lord Tennyson, Simple Poetry

A Medley: O Swallow (The Princess)

Alfred Lord Tennyson, Simple Poetry

A Medley: Ask Me No More (The Princess)

Alfred Lord Tennyson, Simple Poetry

How Thought You That This Thing Could Captivate?

Alfred Lord Tennyson, Simple Poetry

English

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Dedication

These to His Memorysince he held them dear,
Perchance as finding there unconsciously
Some image of himselfI dedicate,
I dedicate, I consecrate with tears
These Idylls.

And indeed He seems to me
Scarce other than my kings ideal knight,
Who reverenced his conscience as his king;
Whose glory was, redressing human wrong;
Who spake no slander, no, nor listened to it;
Who loved one only and who clave to her
Herover all whose realms to their last isle,
Commingled with the gloom of imminent war,
The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse,
Darkening the world. We have lost him: he is gone:
We know him now: all narrow jealousies
Are silent; and we see him as he moved,
How modest, kindly, all-accomplished, wise,
With what sublime repression of himse...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Dedication

Dedication
These to His Memory--since he held them dear,
Perchance as finding there unconsciously
Some image of himself--I dedicate,
I dedicate, I consecrate with tears--
These Idylls.

And indeed He seems to me
Scarce other than my king's ideal knight,
`Who reverenced his conscience as his king;
Whose glory was, redressing human wrong;
Who spake no slander, no, nor listened to it;
Who loved one only and who clave to her--'
Her--over all whose realms to their last isle,
Commingled with the gloom of imminent war,
The shadow of His loss drew like eclipse,
Darkening the world. We have lost him: he is gone:
We know him now: all narrow jealousies
Are silent; and we see him as he moved,
How modest, kindly, all-accomplished, wise,
With what sublim...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

On A Mourner

I.

Nature, so far as in her lies,
Imitates God, and turns her face
To every land beneath the skies,
Counts nothing that she meets with base,
But lives and loves in every place;



II.

Fills out the homely quickset-screens,
And makes the purple lilac ripe,
Steps from her airy hill, and greens
The swamp, where hummd the dropping snipe,
With moss and braided marish-pipe;



III.

And on thy heart a finger lays,
Saying, Beat quicker, for the time
Is pleasant, and the woods and ways
Are pleasant, and the beech and lime
Put forth and feel a gladder clime.



IV.

And murmurs of a deeper voice,
Going before to some far shrine,
Teach that sick heart the stronger choice,

Alfred Lord Tennyson

To...

AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS


Cursed be he that moves my bones.

Shakespeares Epitaph.



You might have won the Poets name,
If such be worth the winning now,
And gaind a laurel for your brow
Of sounder leaf than I can claim;

But you have made the wiser choice,
A life that moves to gracious ends
Thro troops of unrecording friends,
A deedful life, a silent voice.

And you have missd the irreverent doom
Of those that wear the Poets crown;
Hereafter, neither knave nor clown
Shall hold their orgies at your tomb.

For now the Poet cannot die,
Nor leave his music as of old,
But round him ere he scarce be cold
Begins the scandal and the cry:

Proclaim the faults he would not show;
Br...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

A Dedication

DEAR, near and trueno truer Time himself
Can prove you, tho he make you evermore
Dearer and nearer, as the rapid of life
Shoots to the falltake this, and pray that he,
Who wrote it, honoring your sweet faith in him,
May trust himself; and spite of praise and scorn,
As one who feels the immeasurable world,
Attain the wise indifference of the wise;
And after Autumn pastif left to pass
His autumn into seeming-leafless days
Draw toward the long frost and longest night,
Wearing his wisdom lightly, like the fruit
Which in our winter woodland looks a flower.*

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Vastness

I.

Many a hearth upon our dark globe sighs

after many a vanishd face,

Many a planet by many a sun may roll

with the dust of a vanishd race.



II.

Raving politics, never at restas this poor

earths pale history runs,

What is it all but a trouble of ants in the

gleam of a million million of suns?



III.

Lies upon this side, lies upon that side,

truthless violence mournd by the Wise,

Thousands of voices drowning his own in a

popular torrent of lies upon lies;



IV.

Stately purposes, valour in battle, glorious

annals of army and fleet,

Death for the right cause, death for the wrong cause,

trumpets of vi...

Alfred Lord Tennyson