To One Who Ran Down The English

You make our faults too gross, and thence maintain
Our darker future. May your fears be vain!
At times the small black fly upon the pane
May seem the black ox of the distant plain.

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

Come Not, When I Am Dead

Alfred Lord Tennyson, Simple Poetry

Of Old Sat Freedom

Alfred Lord Tennyson, Simple Poetry

Supposed Confessions Of A Second-Rate Sensitive Mind

Alfred Lord Tennyson, Simple Poetry

Milton (Alcaics)

Alfred Lord Tennyson, Simple Poetry

English

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Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Walking To The Mail

    John.        Im glad I walkd.        How fresh the meadows look
Above the river, and, but a month ago,
The whole hill-side was redder than a fox.
Is yon plantation where this byway joins
The turnpike?
    James.    Yes.
    John.        And when does this come by?
    James.    The mail? At one oclock.
    John.        What is it now?
    James.    A quarter to.
    John.        Whose house is that I see?
No, not the County Members with the vane:
Up higher with the yew-tree by it, and half
A score of gables.
    James.    That?        Sir Edward Heads:
But hes abroad: the place is to be sold.
    John.        Oh, his. He was not broken.
    James.    No, sir, he,
Vexd with a morbid devil in his blood
That veild the world with jaundic...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

To...

I.

Clear-headed friend, whose joyful scorn,
Edged with sharp laughter, cuts atwain
The knots that tangle human creeds,
The wounding cords that bind and strain
The heart until it bleeds,
Ray-fringed eyelids of the morn
Roof not a glance so keen as thine;
If aught of prophecy be mine,
Thou wilt not live in vain.


II.

Low-cowering shall the Sophist sit;
Falsehood shall bare her plaited brow;
Fair-fronted Truth shall droop not now
With shrilling shafts of subtle wit.
Nor martyr-flames, nor trenchant swords
Can do away that ancient lie;
A gentler death shall Falsehood die,
Shot thro and thro with cunning words.



III.

Weak Truth a-leaning on her crutch,
Wan, wasted Truth in her utmost need,

Alfred Lord Tennyson

To Victor Hugo

Victor in Drama, Victor in Romance,
Cloud-weaver of phantasmal hopes and fears,
French of the French, and Lord of human tears;
Child-lover; Bard whose fame-lit laurels glance
Darkening the wreaths of all that would advance,
Beyond our strait, their claim to be thy peers;
Weird Titan by thy winter weight of years
As yet unbroken, Stormy voice of France!
Who dost not love our Englandso they say;
I know notEngland, France, all man to be
Will make one people ere mans race be run:
And I, desiring that diviner day,
Yield thee full thanks for thy full courtesy
To younger England in the boy my son.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Vision Of Sin

I.

I had a vision when the night was late:
A youth came riding toward a palace-gate.
He rode a horse with wings, that would have flown,
But that his heavy rider kept him down.
And from the palace came a child of sin,
And took him by the curls, and led him in,
Where sat a company with heated eyes,
Expecting when a fountain should arise:
A sleepy light upon their brows and lips
As when the sun, a crescent of eclipse,
Dreams over lake and lawn, and isles and capes
Suffused them, sitting, lying, languid shapes,
By heaps of gourds, and skins of wine, and piles of grapes.


II.

Then methought I heard a mellow sound,
Gathering up from all the lower ground;
Narrowing in to where they sat assembled
Low voluptuous music winding trembled...

Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Larger Hope

Oh yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;

That nothing walks with aimless feet;
That not one life will be destroyd,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete;

That not a worm is cloven in vain;
That not a moth with vain desire
Is shrivelld in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another gain.

Behold, we know not anything;
I can but trust that good shall fall
At last, far off, at last to all,
And every winter change to spring.

So runs my dream; but who am I?
An infant crying in the night;
An infant crying for the light,
And with no language, but a cry.

Alfred Lord Tennyson

The Fleet

I.

You, you, if you shall fail to understand
What England is, and what her all-in-all,
On you will come the curse of all the land,
Should this old England fall
Which Nelson left so great.



II.

His isle, the mightiest Ocean-power on earth,
Our own fair isle, the lord of every sea
Her fuller franchisewhat would that be worth
Her ancient fame of Free
Where she . . . a fallen state?



III.

Her dauntless army scatterd, and so small,
Her island-myriads fed from alien lands
The fleet of England is her all-in-all;
Her fleet is in your hands,
And in her fleet her fate.



IV.

You, you, that have the ordering of her fleet,
If you should only compass her disgrace,
When ...

Alfred Lord Tennyson