Alfred Tennyson

What is it that will last? All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.

Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labour be?

There is no joy but calm!

There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon …

In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon.

Trust me, Clara Vere de Vere, From yon blue heavens above us bent The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good.

From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.

Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

You sought to prove how I could love, And my disdain is my reply. The lion on your old stone gates Is not more cold to you than I.

A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms.

Lady Clara Vere de Vere, Of me you shall not win renown: You thought to break a country heart For pastime, ere you went to town. At me you smiled, but unbeguiled I saw the snare, and I retired;

So was their meaning to her words. No sword Of wrath her right arm whirl'd, But one poor poet's scroll, and with his word She shook the world.

And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame WISDOM, a name to shake All evil dreams of power — a sacred name.

Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the world Like one great garden show'd, And thro' the wreaths of floating dark up-curl'd, Rare sunrise flow'dAnd Freedom rear'd in that august sunrise Her beautiful bold brow, When rites and forms before …

So many minds did gird their orbs with beams, Tho' one did fling the fire; Heaven flow'd upon the soul in many dreams Of high desire.

The poet in a golden clime was born, With golden stars above; Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.

The world was never made; It will change, but it will not fade. So let the wind range; For even and morn Ever will be Thro’ eternity.

When will the stream be aweary of flowing Under my eye? When will the wind be aweary of blowing Over the sky? When will the clouds be aweary of fleeting? When will the heart be aweary of beating?

Whither in after life retired From brawling storms, From weary wind, With youthful fancy reinspired, We may hold converse with all forms Of the many-sided mind,

Come forth I charge thee, arise, Thou of the many tongues, the myriad eyes! Thou comest not with shows of flaunting vines Unto mine inner eye, Divinest Memory!

In sweet dreams softer than unbroken rest Thou leddest by the hand thine infant Hope. The eddying of her garments caught from thee The light of thy great presence; and the cope Of the half-attain'd futurity, Though deep not fathomless,

Thou who stealest fire, From the fountains of the past, To glorify the present; oh, haste, Visit my low desire! Strengthen me, enlighten me! I faint in this obscurity,

A good woman is a wondrous creature, cleaving to the right and to the good under all change: lovely in youthful comeliness, lovely all her life long in comeliness of heart.

...none can truly write his single day, And none can write it for him upon earth.