The Spiteful Letter

Here, it is here, the close of the year,
And with it a spiteful letter.
My name in song has done him much wrong,
For himself has done much better.

O little bard, is your lot so hard,
If men neglect your pages?
I think not much of yours or of mine,
I hear the roll of the ages.

Rhymes and rhymes in the range of the times!
Are mine for the moment stronger?
Yet hate me not, but abide your lot;
I last but a moment longer.

This faded leaf, our names are as brief;
What room is left for a hater?
Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener leaf,
For it hangs one moment later.

Greater than Iis that your cry?
And men will live to see it.
Wellif it be soso it is, you know;
And if it be so, so be it.

Brief, brief is a summer leaf,
But this is the time of hollies.
O hollies and ivies and evergreens,
How I hate the spites and the follies!

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 Goose

Alfred Lord Tennyson, Simple Poetry

A Medley: Thy Voice Is Heard (The Princess)

Alfred Lord Tennyson, Simple Poetry

Tiresias

Alfred Lord Tennyson, Simple Poetry

In Memoriam W. G. Ward

Alfred Lord Tennyson, Simple Poetry

English

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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

Edwin Morris

O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake,
My sweet, wild, fresh three-quarters of a year,
My one Oasis in the dust and drouth
Of city life! I was a sketcher then:
See here, my doing: curves of mountain, bridge,
Boat, island, ruins of a castle, built
When men knew how to build, upon a rock,
With turrets lichen-gilded like a rock:
And here, new-comers in an ancient hold,
New-comers from the Mersey, millionaires,
Here lived the Hillsa Tudor-chimnied bulk
Of mellow brickwork on an isle of bowers.
O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake
With Edwin Morris and with Edward Bull
The curate; he was fatter than his cure.

But Edwin Morris, he that knew the names,
Long-learned names of agaric, moss and fern,
Who forged a thousand theories of the rocks,
Who taug...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Golden Year

Well, you shall have that song which Leonard wrote:
It was last summer on a tour in Wales:
Old James was with me: we that day had been
Up Snowdon; and I wishd for Leonard there,
And found him in Llanberis: then we crost
Between the lakes, and clamberd half way up
The counter side; and that same song of his
He told me; for I banterd him, and swore
They said he lived shut up within himself,
A tongue-tied Poet in the feverous days,
That, setting the how much before the how,
Cry, like the daughters of the horseleech, Give,
Cram us with all, but count not me the herd!


To which They call me what they will, he said:
But I was born too late: the fair new forms,
That float about the threshold of an age,
Like truths of Science waiting to be caught

Alfred Lord Tennyson

To Ulysses*

I.

Ulysses, much-experienced man,
Whose eyes have known this globe of ours,
Her tribes of men, and trees, and flowers,
From Corrientes to Japan,



II.

To you that bask below the Line,
I soaking here in winter wet
The centurys three strong eights have met
To drag me down to seventy-nine



III.

In summer if I reach my day
To you, yet young, who breathe the balm
Of summer-winters by the palm
And orange grove of Paraguay,



IV.

I tolerant of the colder time,
Who love the winter woods, to trace
On paler heavens the branching grace
Of leafless elm, or naked lime,



V.

And see my cedar green, and there
My giant ilex keeping leaf
When fro...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

Love And Duty

Of love that never found his earthly close,
What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts?
Or all the same as if he had not been?
Not so. Shall Error in the round of time
Still father Truth? O shall the braggart shout
For some blind glimpse of freedom work itself
Thro madness, hated by the wise, to law
System and empire? Sin itself be found
The cloudy porch oft opening on the Sun?
And only he, this wonder, dead, become
Mere highway dust? or year by year alone
Sit brooding in the ruins of a life,
Nightmare of youth, the spectre of himself!
If this were thus, if this, indeed, were all,
Better the narrow brain, the stony heart,
The staring eye glazed oer with sapless days,
The long mechanic pacings to and fro,
The set gray life, and apathetic end.
B...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Letters

Still on the tower stood the vane,
A black yew gloomed the stagnant air,
I peered athwart the chancel pane
And saw the altar cold and bare.
A clog of lead was round my feet,
A band of pain across my brow;
Cold altar, Heaven and earth shall meet
Before you hear my marriage vow.

II.
I turned and hummed a bitter song
That mocked the wholesome human heart,
And then we met in wrath and wrong,
We met, but only met to part.
Full cold my greeting was and dry;
She faintly smiled, she hardly moved;
I saw with half-unconscious eye
She wore the colours I approved.

III.
She took the little ivory chest,
With half a sigh she turned the key,
Then raised her head with lips comprest,
And gave my letters back to me.
And gave the trinke...

Alfred Lord Tennyson