The Skipping-Rope

Sure never yet was antelope
Could skip so lightly by.
Stand off, or else my skipping-rope
Will hit you in the eye.
How lightly Whirls the skipping-rope !
How fairy-like you fly !
Go, get you gone, you muse and mope --
I hate that silly sigh.
Nay, dearest, teach me how to hope,
Or tell me how to die.
There, take it, take my skipping-rope,
And hang yourself thereby.

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

Now Sleeps The Crimson Petal

Alfred Lord Tennyson, Simple Poetry

Audley Court

Alfred Lord Tennyson, Simple Poetry

The Charge Of The Heavy Brigade At Balaclava

Alfred Lord Tennyson, Simple Poetry

Love

Alfred Lord Tennyson, Simple Poetry

English

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I.
What am I doing, you say to me, wasting the sweet summer hours?
Havent you eyes? I am dressing the grave of a woman with flowers.

II.
For a woman ruind the world, as Gods own scriptures tell,
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III.
Love me? O yes, no doubthow longtill you threw me aside!
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All very well just now to be calling me darling and sweet,
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You when I met you firstwhen he brought you!I turnd away
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Rosalind

I.

My Rosalind, my Rosalind,
My frolic falcon, with bright eyes,
Whose free delight, from any height of rapid flight,
Stoops at all game that wing the skies,
My Rosalind, my Rosalind,
My bright-eyed, wild-eyed falcon, whither,
Careless both of wind and weather,
Whither fly ye, what game spy ye,
Up or down the streaming wind?



II.

The quick larks closest-carolld strains,
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That will not stay, upon his way,
To stoop the cowslip to the plains,
Is not so clear and bold and free
As you, my falcon Rosalind.
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The Islet

Whither, O whither, love, shall we go,
For a score of sweet little summers or so?
The sweet little wife of the singer said,
On the day that followd the day she was wed,
Whither, O whither, love, shall we go?
And the singer shaking his curly head
Turnd as he sat, and struck the keys
There at his right with a sudden crash,
Singing, And shall it be over the seas
With a crew that is neither rude nor rash,
But a bevy of Eroses apple-cheekd,
In a shallop of crystal ivory-beakd?
With a satin sail of a ruby glow,
To a sweet little Eden on earth that I know,
A mountain islet pointed and peakd;
Waves on a diamond shingle dash,
Cataract brooks to the ocean run,
Fairily-delicate palaces shine
Mixt with myrtle and clad with vine,
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Tithonus

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,
The vapours weep their burthen to the ground,
Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath,
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Me only cruel immortality
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Here at the quiet limit of the world,
A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a dream
The ever-silent spaces of the East,
Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.
Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man--
So glorious in his beauty and thy choice,
Who madest him thy chosen, that he seem'd
To his great heart none other than a God!
I ask'd thee, "Give me immortality."
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Leonine Elegiacs

Low-flying breezes are roaming the broad valley dimmd in the gloaming;
Thro the black-stemmd pines only the far river shines.
Creeping thro blossomy rushes and bowers of rose-blowing bushes,
Down by the poplar tall rivulets babble and fall.
Barketh the shepherd-dog cheerly; the grasshopper carolleth clearly;
Deeply the wood-dove coos; shrilly the owlet halloos;
Winds creep; dews fall chilly: in her first sleep earth breathes stilly:
Over the pools in the burn water-gnats murmur and mourn.
Sadly the far kine loweth; the glimmering water outfloweth;
Twin peaks shadowd with pine slope to the dark hyaline.
Low-throned Hesper is stayed between the two peaks; but the Naiad
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The Ropewalk

In that building, long and low,
With its windows all a-row,
    Like the port-holes of a hulk,
Human spiders spin and spin,
Backward down their threads so thin
    Dropping, each a hempen bulk.

At the end, an open door;
Squares of sunshine on the floor
    Light the long and dusky lane;
And the whirring of a wheel,
Dull and drowsy, makes me feel
    All its spokes are in my brain.

As the spinners to the end
Downward go and reascend,
    Gleam the long threads in the sun;
While within this brain of mine
Cobwebs brighter and more fine
    By the busy wheel are spun.

Two fair maidens in a swing,
Like white doves upon the wing,
    First before my vision pass;
Laughing, as their gentle hands
Closely clasp the twisted...

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow