Poems by Alfred Tennyson
also known as: Alfred Lord Tennyson
Lord Tennyson
Sorted by title, showing title and first line
With a half-glance upon the sky
DEAR, near and true—no truer Time himself
I.
I read, before my eyelids dropt their shade,
Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
As thro' the land at eve we went,
Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;
Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height:
Home they brought her warrior dead:
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South,
Our enemies have fall'n, have fall'n: the seed,
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Thy voice is heard thro' rolling drums,
A voice by cedar tree
A voice spake out of the skies
Sea-kings’ daughter from over the sea, Alexandra!
The son of him with whom we strove for power—
ILIAD, XVIII. 2O2.
I.
I thought of Thee, my partner and my guide,
AN INSCRIPTION BY ABUL FAZL FOR A TEMPLE IN KASHMIR (Blochmann xxxii.)
All Things will Die
My father left a park to me,
‘Te somnia nostra reducunt.’
As thro’ the land of eve we went,
Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea;
Audley Court
Dust are our frames; and gilded dust, our pride
Pellam the King, who held and lost with Lot
Athelstan King,
Beautiful city, the centre and crater of European confusion,
The splendour falls on castle walls
While about the shore of Mona those Neronian legionaries
Break, break, break,
The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul of a man,
I.
I.
Two children in two neighbor villages
Where Claribel low-lieth
Chains, my good lord: in your raised brows I read
Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height:
Come into the garden, Maud,
Come not, when I am dead,
What does little birdie say
Sunset and evening star,
Dark house, by which once more I stand
The Two Greetings.
Dear is the memory of our wedded lives,
Dedication
These to His Memory—since he held them dear,
Dead Princess, living Power, if that which lived
Faint as a climate-changing bird that flies
I.
With farmer Allan at the farm abode
Tho’ Sin too oft, when smitten by Thy rod,
1. Is it the wind of the dawn that I hear
I.
I.
Sweet Emma Moreland of yonder town
O me, my pleasant rambles by the lake,
I.
O thou that sendest out the man
Long lines of cliff breaking have left a chasm;
Thy prayer was ‘Light-more Light-while Time shall last!’
Warrior of God, man’s friend, and tyrant’s foe,
Thou third great Canning, stand among our best
I.
What sight so lured him thro’ the fields he knew
O love, Love, Love! O withering might!
Flower in the crannied wall,
I.
‘Frater Ave atque Vale’
I.
O thou most holy Friendship! wheresoe’er
The last tall son of Lot and Bellicent,
O purblind race of miserable men,
I.
I waited for the train at Coventry;
Queen Guinevere had fled the court, and sat
First pledge our Queen this solemn night,
I.
Hateful is the dark-blue sky,
Helen’s tower, here I stand,
O you chorus of indolent reviewers,
Home they brought her warrior dead:
How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,
How thought you that this thing could captivate?
Turn, Fortune, turn thy wheel, and lower the proud;
Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his mood
That story which the bold Sir Bedivere,
O living will that shalt endure
I envy not in any moods
O Sorrow, cruel fellowship,
I wage not any feud with Death
OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII.
Farewell, whose like on earth I shall not find,
On Translations of Homer
EMMIE
Nightingales warbled without,
All along the valley, stream that flashest white,
Eyes not down-dropt nor over-bright, but fed
There on the top of the down,
I.
I know her by her angry air,
Lady Clara Vere de Vere,
It was the time when lilies blow,
The foes of the east have come down on our shore,
Elaine the fair, Elaine the loveable,
Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill!
Low-flying breezes are roaming the broad valley dimm’d in the gloaming;
I
Ah God! the petty fools of rhyme
Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet 't is early morn:
Late, my grandson! half the morning have I paced these sandy tracts,
I envy not in any moods
I.
What time the mighty moon was gathering light
Of love that never found his earthly close,
Love thou thy land, with love far-brought
Lucilla, wedded to Lucretius, found
I.
I.
With blackest moss the flower-plots
With one black shadow at its feet,
Light, so low upon earth,
PART I
Now first we stand and understand,
I.
A storm was coming, but the winds were still,
’Tis midnight o’er the dim mere’s lonely bosom,
O mighty-mouth'd inventor of harmonies,
Minnie and Winnie
They rose to where their sovran eagle sails,
So all day long the noise of battle roll'd
Move eastward, happy earth, and leave
I.
I.
Wheer ’asta beän saw long and meä liggin’ ’ere aloän?
When will the stream be aweary of flowing
Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
O beauty, passing beauty! Sweetest sweet!
O, were I loved as I desire to be!
1852
I.
I.
Of old sat Freedom on the heights,
I.
While man and woman still are incomplete,
I.
WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF THE
NAÄY, noä mander (2) o’ use to be callin’ ’im Roä, Roä, Roä,
I.
King Arthur made new knights to fill the gap
This thing, that thing is the rage,
Old poets foster’d under friendlier skies,
We move, the wheel must always move,
Midnight June 30 1879
Those that of late had fleeted far and fast
The splendour falls on castle walls
For I dipt into the future, far as human eye could see,
When the breeze of a joyful dawn blew free
Fair is her cottage in its place,
There is a sound of thunder afar,
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
I.
‘BEAT, little heart—I give you this and this’
I.
A city clerk, but gently born and bred;
THY tuwhits are lull’d I wot,
She is coming, my own, my sweet;
A garden here—May breath and bloom of spring—
My good blade carves the casques of men,
Not here! the white North has thy bones; and thou,
My friend should meet me somewhere hereabout
Like souls that balance joy and pain,
I.
The winds, as at their hour of birth,
Who can say
So Hector spake; and Trojans roar’d applause;
Birds' love and birds' song
Deep on the convent-roof the snows
Altho’ I be the basest of mankind,
Had the fierce ashes of some fiery peak
O God! my God! have mercy now.
Sweet and low, sweet and low,
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
A thousand summers ere the time of Christ
My heart is wasted with my woe,
To Sir Walter Scott...
Her arms across her breast she laid;
O blackbird! sing me something well:
Here, by this brook, we parted; I to the East
His eyes in eclipse,
A LEGEND OF THE NAVY
I
Half a league, half a league,
I.
Leodogran, the King of Cameliard,
O love, what hours were thine and mine,
Red of the Dawn!
PROLOGUE
I.
To the Mourners.
Full knee-deep lies the winter snow,
Œnone sat within the cave from out
I
I.
I.
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
At Francis Allen’s on the Christmas-eve,—
Jerusalem! Jerusalem!
I.
I.
Are you sleeping? have you forgotten? do not sleep, my sister dear!
Once in a golden hour
This morning is the morning of the day,
Well, you shall have that song which Leonard wrote:
I knew an old wife lean and poor,
I.
The Higher Pantheism
From noiseful arms, and acts of prowess done
‘Whither, O whither, love, shall we go,
Below the thunders of the upper deep,
On either side the river lie
I
I
Oh yet we trust that somehow good
Dagonet, the fool, whom Gawain in his mood
Still on the tower stood the vane,
In her ear he whispers gaily,
‘Courage!’ he said, and pointed toward the land,
I.
Where is one that, born of woman, altogether can escape
The brave Geraint, a knight of Arthur's court,
You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;
I.
I.
It is the miller's daughter,
I.
Live thy Life,
When cats run home and light is come,
I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house,
That story which the bold Sir Bedivere,
This morning is the morning of the day,
Act first, this Earth, a stage so gloom’d with woe
The poet in a golden clime was born,
I.
The rain had fallen, the Poet arose,
A prince I was, blue-eyed, and fair in face,
At break of day the College Portress came:
Morn in the wake of the morning star
'There sinks the nebulous star we call the Sun,
Now, scarce three paces measured from the mound,
My dream had never died or lived again.
So was their sanctuary violated,
Sir Walter Vivian all a summer's day
So closed our tale, of which I give you all
The groundflame of the crocus breaks the mould,
A Ballad of the Fleet
Miriam (singing).
'Your ringlets, your ringlets,
Rose, on this terrace fifty years ago,
He rose at dawn and, fired with hope,
Slow sail’d the weary mariners and saw,
When the dumb Hour, clothed in black,
We were two daughters of one race;
They have left the doors ajar; and by their clash,
We were two daughters of one race;
Sure never yet was antelope
Many, many welcomes,
1
Here, it is here, the close of the year,
The splendor falls on castle walls
Once more the gate behind me falls;
Heaven weeps above the earth all night till morn,
My Lords, we heard you speak: you told us all
‘Summer is coming, summer is coming.
Ralph would fight in Edith’s sight,
A still small voice spake unto me,
I.
’Ouse-keeper sent tha my lass, fur New Squire coom’d last night.
I.
I.
I.
I.
Soft, shadowy moon-beam! by the light
The gleam of household sunshine ends,
ON THE HILL.
Hide me, Mother! my Fathers belong’d to the church of old,
?
I wish I were as in the years of old
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,
Golden-hair’d Ally whose name is one with mine,
King, that hast reign’d six hundred years, and grown
Old Fitz, who from your suburb grange,
Illyrian woodlands, echoing falls
Two Suns of Love make day of human life,
The wind, that beats the mountain, blows
I.
You make our faults too gross, and thence maintain
O you that were eyes and light to the King till he past away
Fair things are slow to fade away,
O Patriot Statesman, be thou wise to know
I.
Dear Master in our classic town,
O loyal to the royal in thyself,
Revered, beloved–O you that hold
January, 1854
Brooks, for they call’d you so that knew you best,
I.
Victor in Drama, Victor in Romance,
I.
1851
AFTER READING A LIFE AND LETTERS
I.
I send you here a sort of allegory–
I.
It little profits that an idle king,
I.
Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song,
John. I’m glad I walk’d. How fresh the meadows look
Why do they prate of the blessings of peace? we have made them a curse,
I.
O plump head-waiter at The Cock,
You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease,
There lies a vale in Ida, lovelier