The Brook Poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson - Poem Hunter The Brook Poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson - Poem Hunter The Brook - Poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson Autoplay next video I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges, By twenty thorpes, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow-weed and mallow. I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.

I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling, And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel, And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. I steal by lawns and grassy plots, I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance, Among my skimming swallows; I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows. I murmur under moon and stars In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses; And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever. Mohammed Asim Nehal (4/27/2016 7:31:00 AM) The Poem is a symbol of life.

The brook's journey from its origin till its joining the brimming river is man's journey of life from birth to death. Whatever happens to it on the way is similar to what man encounters through his life. The brook's noisy flow is similar to mans struggling and fretting and fuming against the odds of life. The brook slips, slides, glooms and glances. So does man. It makes its way forcefully against odds, so does man as he struggles through many problems. The brook carries many things with it as it flows. So does man-he meets people - builds relationships - carries memories, collects materialistic things as he goes through life. The only difference between man and the brook is that man's life comes to an end. Where as the brook lives on and on forever. (Report) Reply Raniya Ahsan (5/25/2016 8:24:00 AM) I love your words........... its such a great comparison, and maybe even the poet would agree too, if he was alive Wonder Woman (4/21/2015 5:51:00 PM) I recall my mother quoting from this musical and eloquent poem.

It s best said aloud. (Report) Reply Nick Homick (6/5/2013 2:31:00 AM) This poem (clearly a transcendentalist homage to scriptural reference [Ecclesiastes 1: 4]) really is alive because rather than the static (earth) , it refers to the dynamic (water) - the brook yet endures - but in contrast, One never steps in the same river twice... (Heraclitus) . It is the dynamic flow, the journey of the brook, and the merging into everything it encounters, that appeals. Indeed the human being is the brook, for what else babbles and chatters at every turn, bickers and visits so many towns, to murmur and croon to the moon (wether or not anyone is listening) . Humanity is not a part of nature, we are nature - if absolutely true to it. Often people describe human nature as aberrant (war, sin, vice, etc...) - which is propaganda of the oppressor. I very strongly believe that Tennyson and I could be in agreement that nature IS true humanity - propaganda of the partner.

The natural inclination of humanity to the Transcendentalists is reverence to nature in a divine sense. Our essence is goodness and self-reliance. Nature is not subordinate to us, but instead nature exists in symbiotic relationship. Likewise, nature transcends itself - for it is not one thing that creates beauty - but rather the relationship between things; nature is never static, and the more one finds it's place in it: the more beautiful it becomes. Every natural environment is whole, complete, and everything in it is doing exactly as it should. Beauty only exists if there is a viewer, it is never solitary. Likewise, reverence is always a partnership. The more that we surrender to our natural relationship with nature, the more true we become, to ourselves and the world - and, the more likely we are to endure forever. For certainly, the more separate we make ourselves from nature - the more we destroy it. Why destroy ourselves? Why kill our planet? Why be indifferent to the other creatures? (Report) Reply Mamta Agarwal (4/6/2010 5:02:00 AM) simple, yet enchanting, absolutely delightful, the poem is one of the few i read in school.

everytime i read i am transported to himalayas, where i saw these kinds of brroks, Tennyson describes with such gay abandon. Aleen Ye (9/25/2009 1:31:00 AM) I LOVE THIS POEM VERY MUCH. I TRANSLATED THIS POEM INTO CLASSICAL RHYMED CHINESE. WHO IS INTEREST IN IT? EMAIL TO ME. (Report) Reply Graham Wallis (6/2/2009 9:30:00 PM) As with all evocative poetry, it's hard to distinguish love for the inherent qualities from love of the memories conveyed. One of the first poems that I remember being read to me by my father, it means sitting in the lounge on a winter Sunday afternoon. It means damming the local streams with my brother and friends. It means walking the dog through the Cowleigh woods. But it takes that wonderful alliteration and onomatopoeia to give those memories. A poem within a poem, it's as if Tennyson has licence to go over the top, parodying the tools of the poet.

There is so much music in those words; each simple verse is both a snapshot of a stretch of stream, and of a period of life. One wants the poem, like the brook, to go on for ever. (Report) Reply Albert Gazeley (3/19/2005 6:37:00 PM) This is my favourite poem for a whole host of reasons – It was the first real poem that I had read to me at school when I was seven or eight years old and I remembered the first few verses from that instant on – Even today (sixty years later) it brings back the memories of my childhood and paddling in brooks and streams trying to catch tadpoles and sticklebacks on lazy sunny afternoons with my friends – although I grew up during the war in England – us children lived a very Tom Soyer existence. (Report) Reply "For Men May Come And Men May Go, But I Go On Forever." "For Men May Come And Men May Go, But I Go On Forever." Description "For Men May Come And Men May Go, But I Go On Forever." BY ALFRED TENNYSON.

I COME from haunts of coot and hern; I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley By thirty hills I hurry down, Or slip between the ridges; By twenty thorps, a little town, And half a hundred bridges. Till last by Philip's farm I flow, To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles; I bubble into eddying bays , I babble on the pebbles. With many a curve my banks I fret, By many a field and fallow, And many a fairy foreland set With willow- weed and mallow I chatter, chatter, as I flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

I wind about, and in and out, With here a blossom sailing, And here and there a lusty trout, And here and there a grayling, And here and there a foamy flake Upon me, as I travel, With many a silvery waterbreak Above the golden gravel; And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go. But I go on forever. I steal by lawns and grassy plots I slide by hazel covers; I move the sweet forget-me-nots That grow for happy lovers. I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance Among my skimming swallows, I make the netted sunbeam dance Against my sandy shallows. I murmur under moon and stars, In brambly wildernesses; I linger by my shingly bars; I loiter round my cresses. And out again I curve and flow To join the brimming river; For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. What is a stanza-by-stanza summary of the poem "The Brook" by Alfred Lord Tennyson?

| eNotes What is a stanza-by-stanza summary of the poem "The Brook" by Alfred Lord Tennyson? Karen P.L. Hardison | College Teacher | eNotes Employee Posted on July 30, 2010 at 6:02 AM A summary of Tennyson's "The Brook" is a very straightforward thing once you realize that the poetic voice, or the speaker, in this simple allegorical poem is the personified brook (who may be viewed as Immortality in opposition to humankind's toil and transience): "I come from haunts of coot and hern,". [A haunt is a much frequented place. A coot is an aquatic bird. A hern is a heron bird.] The brook is saying that it originates at a large body of water where coot and hern congregate. Each stanza highlights the brook's progress to its destination that is revealed in the last stanza, which is "the brimming river," and to the delivery of the theme and purpose of the poem, which is that "men may come and men may go, / But I go on forever." The brook's journey takes it past (S.

2) "a little town" where people dwell; by (S. 3) "Philip's farm" where a family grows; (S. 4) over stones, eddies and pebbles; and (S. 5) past curves and willow-weed, while (S. 7) it chatters and flows and "men may come and men may go." It (S. 8) winds about with blossom and trout above (S. 9) "golden gravel" and (S. 10) draws them all along, for it (S. 11) goes on "forever." It passes (S. 12) lawns, forget-me-not flowers and "happy lovers" as it (S. 13) slips and slides with swallow birds and sunbeams. Under (S. 14) "moon and stars" it (S. 15) curves and flows To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. like 8 dislike 3 May 10, 2010 at 11:42 PM The poem is about a long stream .

The poet starts the poem by describing the journey of the stream,it starts from a place that is frequently visited by coot(a water bird with a white spot on the head) and hern(heron;another type of water bird) and make a sudden emerge. They flows out among te bushes and flow down a Vally with lot of noise. It crosses thirty hills , slip down the ridges, twenty villages, fifty bridges. The poet also do a comparison between stream and human that man take birth and die but i live forever. The poem is mainly about the journey of stream and how at philip's farm it join the river. The poet also has created a beautiful picture of nature like blossom sailing on stream , the falling sun lights forming a sparkle net on stream ,the mixture of sand and stones forming a silvery water break, of a type of flower that grow for happy lovers.

The poem will refresh the streams of brains and invite you to enjoy the nice cool winds flowing near the stream like 9 dislike 1 August 11, 2011 at 10:58 PM In the poem brook the poet compares the life the brook with that of the man.He says that the BROOK when comes from haunted places is fresh and lively.It is compared to a man at his young age.he behaves as so he is energetic and fresh.The BROOK slows down when it reaches the plains which in compared with a man who has the burden of his family,his job and surroundings.But the poet concludes that the brook is immortal because because it joins the mighty ocean and becomesw a part of it but man is born th die and is mortal.He compares differerent stages of brook eith that of the man.He uses a lot of attractive words describing its movement and sound.It is really a wonderful poem written by TENNYSON. like 4 dislike 0 May 3, 2012 at 10:18 AM In its initial stages, the brook rshes down the hills and valleys, while chattering energetically.

The poet has used words like "chatter", "bubble", "babble" etc. to highlight the playful child-like attitude of the brook. Both, the human life and the brook, encounter and overcome obstacles, make a perilious journey in order to reach their ultimate destination.The brook goes down to join the river and the human beings see the end of the circle of life. The brook crosses a number of villages, hills, valleys etc., carries with it whatever comes in its way(fishes, flowers, weeds, pebbles/stones) in order to reach where it has to. The human life works in a similar fashion. The brook is full of fishes(graylings, trouts), an indication oflife inside it. This is just like the human body that too can carry life. In the final stages of its journey, the brook sobers down, it is described with words like "steal", "slide", "murmur", "loiter", "linger" etc.. The human life also in the later years shows similar signs. While the brook flows eternally, the human life is limited to a fewnumber of years, it is mortal.

like 2 dislike 1 The Brook by Alfred Lord Tennyson - Famous poems, famous poets. - All Poetry Loading... jack babcock : corny but super Zai Tracea : Ow, Tenny, you just kicked me in the shin with this: I chatter over stony ways, In little sharps and trebles, I bubble into eddying bays, I babble on the pebbles. Zai Tracea : That went on forever and I wish it had never stopped. Phenomenal rhyme and visuals. What a masterful penning! Much to learn, Mr Ten. B L McA : Well, around here, brooks (by some name---not always brook) sometimes dry up. However, after the next snow melt, they usually fill up again. Brooks may come and brooks may go, but the cycle goes on for a really long time. james x latorre : Yeah, Tennyson was technically incorrect in saying the brook goes on forever, both in it's length and ultimately in time; but with such a beautiful, almost hypnotic poem, one must ignore such trivial oversights.

B L McA : Ignoring the fact that forever is longer than Tennyson has allowed for, it's quite a stirring poem. : And out again I curve and flow 49 To join the brimming river, 50 For men may come and men may go, 51 But I go on for ever. : I first read The Brook twenty or more years ago. The words haunted my inner most thoughts for all those years until I finally gave in and memorized the entire poem. What a peacefull feeling I get when I close my eyes and just let it flow through from start to finish. Pari Ali : I was just reading this poem with my daughter who is studying it this year, it is a beautiful poem to read aloud,very well flowing and musical. The poet has used apt words to bring the different sounds of the brook as it flows. sometimes chattering sometimes noisy like people bickering sometimes bubbling and babbling and sometimes gently murmuring. the descriptions of pastoral serenity evoke a feeling of deep peace, painting such strong visual pictures that the reader is transported for a while into the poets peaceful bucolic world Edited on Apr 23, 4:01 p.m. because ''.

: Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Wikiquote Alfred, Lord Tennyson I hold it true, whate'er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; 'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all. Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1st Baron Tennyson) ( August 6 1809 – October 6 1892 ) was the Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom, after William Wordsworth , and is one of the most popular English poets. See also: The breezes pause and die, Letting the rose-leaves fall: But the solemn oak-tree sigheth, Thick-leaved, ambrosial, With blackest moss the flower plots Were thickly crusted, one and all; The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the pear to the gable wall. The broken sheds looked sad and strange: Unlifted was the clinking latch; Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

She only said, "My life is dreary, He cometh not," she said; She said, "I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!' He often lying broad awake, and yet Remaining from the body, and apart In intellect and power and will, hath heard Time flowing in the middle of the night, And all things creeping to a day of doom. Yet fill my glass: give me one kiss: My own sweet Alice, we must die. There's somewhat in this world amiss Shall be unriddled by and by. There's somewhat flows to us in life, But more is taken quite away. Pray, Alice, pray, my darling wife, That we may die the self-same day. Have I not found a happy earth? I least should breathe a thought of pain. Would God renew me from my birth I'd almost live my life again. So sweet it seems with thee to walk, And once again to woo thee mine — It seems in after-dinner talk Across the walnuts and the wine — "The Miller's Daughter" (1832). Dear mother Ida, harken ere I die.

For now the noonday quiet holds the hill: The grasshopper is silent in the grass: The lizard, with his shadow on the stone, Rests like a shadow, and the winds are dead. The purple flower droops: the golden bee Is lily-cradled: I alone awake. My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love, My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, And I am all aweary of my life. " Oenone ", st. 3 (1832). These three alone lead life to sovereign power. Yet not for power (power of herself Would come uncall'd for) but to live by law, Acting the law we live by without fear; And, because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence. "Oenone", st. 14. I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.

I said, "O Soul, make merry and carouse, Dear soul, for all is well." You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; Tomorrow 'ill be the happiest time of all the glad New-year; Of all the glad New-year, mother, the maddest merriest day, For I'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be Queen o' the May. " The May Queen ", st. 1 (1832). Dan Chaucer, the first warbler, whose sweet breath Preluded those melodious bursts that fill The spacious times of great Elizabeth With sounds that echo still. At length I saw a lady within call, Stiller than chisell'd marble, standing there; A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair. "A Dream of Fair Women", st. 22. Half light, half shade, " The Gardener's Daughter ", l. 139-140 (1842). 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 o'er with sapless days, The long mechanic pacings to and fro, The set gray life, and apathetic end. But am I not the nobler thro' thy love? O three times less unworthy! likewise thou Art more thro' Love, and greater than thy years. " Love and Duty ", l. 1- 21 (1842).

The slow sweet hours that bring us all things good, The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill, And all good things from evil, brought the night In which we sat together and alone, And to the want, that hollow'd all the heart, Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye, That burn'd upon its object thro' such tears As flow but once a life. The trance gave way To those caresses, when a hundred times In that last kiss, which never was the last, Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died. "Love and Duty" l. 57 - 67 (1842). My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. Meet is it changes should control Our being, lest we rust in ease. We all are changed by still degrees, All but the basis of the soul. But we grow old. Ah! when shall all men's good Be each man's rule, and universal Peace Lie like a shaft of light across the land, And like a lane of beams athwart the sea, Thro' all the circle of the golden year?

" The Golden Year ", st. 3 (1842). My good blade carves the casques of men, My tough lance thrusteth sure, My strength is as the strength of ten, Because my heart is pure. " Sir Galahad ", st. 1 (1842). I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men, Who hold their hands to all, and cry For that which all deny them — Who sweep the crossings, wet or dry, And all the world go by them. As shines the moon in clouded skies, She in her poor attire was seen; One praised her ankles, one her eyes, One her dark hair and lovesome mien. So sweet a face, such angel grace, In all that land had never been. Cophetua sware a royal oath: "This beggar maid shall be my queen!" " The Beggar Maid ", st. 2 (1842). All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again. Then some one spake: "Behold!

it was a crime Of sense avenged by sense that wore with time." Another said: "The crime of sense became The crime of malice, and is equal blame." And one: "He had not wholly quench'd his power; A little grain of conscience made him sour." At last I heard a voice upon the slope Cry to the summit, "Is there any hope?" To which an answer peal'd from that high land, But in a tongue no man could understand; And on the glimmering limit far withdrawn God made Himself an awful rose of dawn. "The Vision of Sin", sec. 5 (1842). Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, O Sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me. " Break, Break, Break " (1842), st. 1. Break, break, break At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. "Break, Break, Break" (1842), st. 4. But oh for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

"Break, Break, Break" (1842). Come not, when I am dead, To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, To trample round my fallen head, And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. There let the wind sweep and the plover cry; But thou, go by. Child, if it were thine error or thy crime I care no longer, being all unblest: Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, And I desire to rest. Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie: Go by, go by. "Come not, when I am dead" (1850). He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls. We love not this French God, the child of hell, Wild War, who breaks the converse of the wise; But though we love kind Peace so well, We dare not even by silence sanction lies.

It might be safe our censures to withdraw, And yet, my Lords, not well; there is a higher law. I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally, And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. " The Brook ", st. 1 (1855). And draw them all along, and flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever. "The Brook", st. 5. 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, And after many a summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, 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. " Tithonus ", st. 1 (1860). His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to come. Yet let your sleep for this one night be sound: I do forgive him!

" Sea Dreams " (1864) l. 301-303. And the parson made it his text that week, and he said likewise, That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies, That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight. " The Grandmother ", st. 8 (1864). Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet — Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet. " The Higher Pantheism ", st. 6 (1869). Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies, I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower — but if I could understand What you are, root and all, and all in all, I should know what God and man is. Love lieth deep; Love dwells not in lip-depths. The Lover's Tale (1879), line 466. Where love could walk with banish'd Hope no more.

The Lover's Tale (1879), line 813. Thou that singest wheat and woodland, tilth and vineyard, hive and horse and herd; All the charm of all the Muses often flowering in a lonely word. Love's arms were wreathed about the neck of Hope, And Hope kiss'd Love, and Love drew in her breath In that close kiss and drank her whisper'd tales. They said that Love would die when Hope was gone. And Love mourn'd long, and sorrow'd after Hope; At last she sought out Memory, and they trod The same old paths where Love had walked with Hope, And Memory fed the soul of Love with tears. The Lover's Tale (1879), line 815. Thou that singest wheat and woodland, tilth and vineyard, hive and horse and herd; All the charm of all the Muses often flowering in a lonely word. " To Virgil ", st. 3 (1882).

For Knowledge is the swallow on the lake That sees and stirs the surface-shadow there But never yet hath dipt into the abysm From The Ancient Sage (1885), lines 37-39 For nothing worthy proving can be proven, Nor yet disproven: wherefore thou be wise, Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt, And cling to Faith beyond the forms of Faith! From The Ancient Sage (1885), lines 66-69 She sees the Best that glimmers thro’ the Worst, She feels the Sun is hid but for a night, She spies the summer thro’ the winter bud, She tastes the fruit before the blossom falls, She hears the lark within the songless egg, She finds the fountain where they wail’d ‘Mirage’! From The Ancient Sage (1885), lines 72-77 The shell must break before the bird can fly. From The Ancient Sage (1885), line 154 First pledge our Queen this solemn night, Then drink to England, every guest; That man's the best Cosmopolite Who loves his native country best. " Hands All Round ", l.

1-4 (1885). O young Mariner, ‘Follow The Gleam.’ "Merlin and the Gleam", st. 3 (1889). Well, Gosse , would you like to know what I think of Churton Collins ? I think he's a Louse on the Locks of Literature. Evan Charteris, Life and Letters of Sir Edmund Gosse (1931), p. 197. This laurel greener from the brows Of him that utter'd nothing base. To the Queen, st. 3 (1851). And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons, when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet. To the Queen, st. 8 (1851). Broad-based upon her people’s will, And compass'd by the inviolate sea. To the Queen, st. 9 (1851). For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid. Recollections of the Arabian Nights, stanza 1, from Poems, Chiefly Lyrical (1830).

A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this, To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips. Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere. As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her played, Blowing the ringlet from the braid. Sir Launcelot and Queen Guinevere. God gives us love. Something to love He lends us; but when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone. To J. S., stanza 4, from Poems (1832). Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace! Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, While the stars burn, the moons increase, And the great ages onward roll. To J. S., stanza 18, from Poems (1832). Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet! Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep full of rest from head to feet; Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. To J. S., stanza 19, from Poems (1832). More black than ash-buds in the front of March.

The Gardener's Daughter, line 28, from Poems (1842). We are ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times. The Daydream: L'Envoi, lines 231-32, from The Complete Works of Alfred Tennyson (1879). For now the poet can not die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry. To ———, after reading a Life and Letters, stanza 4, from Poems (1850). Mastering the lawless science of our law,— That codeless myriad of precedent, That wilderness of single instances. Aylmer's Field (1864); reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). Insipid as the queen upon a card. Aylmer's Field (1864); reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). O Love!

what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine; In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine! The Daisy, Stanza 1; reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). So dear a life your arms enfold, Whose crying is a cry for gold. The Daisy, Stanza 24; reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed. The Flower; reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). "I'll never love any but you," the morning song of the lark; "I'll never love any but you," the nightingale's hymn in the dark. The First Quarrel, stanza VI., lines 3-4; reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919).

My God, I would not live Save that I think this gross hard-seeming world Is our misshaping vision of the Powers Behind the world, that make our griefs our gains. The Sisters, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). Is morning-star to the full round of truth. Columbus, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). No sound is breathed so potent to coerce And to conciliate, as their names who dare For that sweet mother-land which gave them birth Nobly to do, nobly to die. Tiresias, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). A princelier-looking man never stept thro' a prince's hall. The Wreck, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). Slav, Teuton, Kelt, I count them all My friends and brother souls, With all the peoples, great and small, That wheel between the poles.

Epilogue to The Charge of the heavy Brigade, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). The song that nerves a nation's heart Is in itself a deed. Epilogue to The Charge of the Heavy Brigade, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). What use to brood? This life of mingled pains And joys to me, Despite of every Faith and Creed, remains The Mystery. To Mary Boyle, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). Be patient. Our Playwright may show In some fifth act what this wild Drama means. The Play, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). In our windy world What's up is faith, what's down is heresy. Harold, Act i, Scene 1, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). A breath that fleets beyond this iron world And touches him who made it. Harold, Act iii, Scene 2.

Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again. Becket, Prologue, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). Ambition Is like the sea wave, which the more you drink The more you thirst—yea—drink too much, as men Have done on rafts of wreck—it drives you mad. The Cup, Act i, Scene 3, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). The night with sudden odour reeled; The southern stars a music pealed. The Rosebud, reported in Bartlett's Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. (1919). Death's truer name From the fountains of the past, To glorify the present; oh, haste, Visit my low desire! I faint in this obscurity, Thou dewy dawn of 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, Was cloven with the million stars which tremble O'er the deep mind of dauntless infancy. 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, Whither in after life retired From brawling storms, 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. He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill, He saw thro' his own soul. The marvel of the everlasting will, An open scroll, Before him lay; with echoing feet he threaded The secretest walks of fame: The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed And wing'd with flame, Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue... 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.

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'd. There was no blood upon her maiden robes Sunn'd by those orient skies; But round about the circles of the globes Of her keen And in her raiment's hem was traced in flame WISDOM, a name to shake All evil dreams of power — a sacred name. And when she spake, Her words did gather thunder as they ran, And as the lightning to the thunder Which follows it, riving the spirit of man, Making earth wonder, 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. 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; The daughter of a hundred earls, You are not one to be desired. Stanza 1. A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. Stanza 2.

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. Stanza 3. Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere. Stanza 5. From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Stanza 7. 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. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood. Stanza 7. In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. St. 1. 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 tir'd eyes. Choric Song, st. 1. There is no joy but calm! Choric Song, st.

2. Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labour be? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last? All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence; ripen, fall and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. Choric Song, st. 4. Let us swear an oath, and keep it with an equal mind, In the hollow Lotos-land to live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. Choric Song, st. 8. Surely, surely, slumber is more sweet than toil, the shore Than labour in the deep mid-ocean, wind and wave and oar; O, rest ye, brother mariners, we will not wander more. Choric Song, st. 8.

On either side the river lie Long fields of barley and of rye, That clothe the wold and meet the sky; And through the field the road runs by To many-towered Camelot. Little breezes dusk and shiver Through the wave that runs for ever By the island in the river Flowing down to Camelot. All in the blue unclouded weather Thick-jewelled shone the saddle-leather, The helmet and the helmet-feather Burned like one burning flame together, As he rode down to Camelot. Pt. III, st. 3. From the bank and from the river He flashed into the crystal mirror, "Tirra lirra," by the river Sang Sir Lancelot. She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She looked down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide; The mirror cracked from side to side; "The curse is come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott.

Lying, robed in snowy white That loosely flew to left and right — The leaves upon her falling light — Thro' the noises of the night, She floated down to Camelot: And as the boat-head wound along The willowy hills and fields among, They heard her singing her last song, The Lady of Shalott. It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. l. 1-5.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honour'd of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. 13 -17. I am part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades For ever and for ever when I move. l. 18 - 21. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! As tho' to breath were life.

Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. l. 22-32. Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me — That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honor and his toil. Death closes all; but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with gods. l. 46-53. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks; The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs; the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends. 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. l. 54-62. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down; It may be that we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Though much is taken, much abides; and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are — One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield. l. 63-70. The bodies and the bones of those That strove in other days to pass, Are wither'd in the thorny close, Or scatter'd blanching on the grass. He gazes on the silent dead: "They perish'd in their daring deeds." This proverb flashes thro' his head, "The many fail: the one succeeds." The Arrival, st. 2.

And on her lover's arm she leant, And round her waist she felt it fold, And far across the hills they went In that new world which is the old: Across the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, And deep into the dying day The happy princess follow'd him. The Departure, st. 1. O eyes long laid in happy sleep! O happy sleep, that lightly fled! O happy kiss, that woke thy sleep! O love, thy kiss would wake the dead! The Departure, st. 3. And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she follow'd him. The Departure, st. 4. So, Lady Flora, take my lay, And if you find no moral there, Go, look in any glass and say, What moral is in being fair. Oh, to what uses shall we put The wildweed-flower that simply blows? And is there any moral shut Within the bosom of the rose? Moral, st. 1. Authority forgets a dying king, Laid widow’d of the power in his eye That bow’d the will.

Lines 121-123 Made lightnings in the splendour of the moon, And flashing round and round, and whirl'd in an arch, Shot like a streamer of the northern morn, Seen where the moving isles of winter shock By night, with noises of the northern sea. So flash'd and fell the brand Excalibur. Lines 136-142 My end draws nigh; 't is time that I were gone. Make broad thy shoulders to receive my weight Lines 163-164 When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight. Lines 230-231 It was the time when lilies blow, And clouds are highest up in air. Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe To give his cousin, Lady Clare. "He does not love me for my birth Nor for my lands so broad and fair; He loves me for my own true worth, And that is well," said Lady Clare.

"If I'm a beggar born," she said "I will speak out, for I dare not lie, Pull off, pull off the brooch of gold, And fling the diamond necklace by." "Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, "But keep the secret all you can." She said, "Not so; but I will know If there be any faith in man". She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare: She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair. The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay. Dropped her head in the maiden's hand. And followed her all the way. "If I come dressed like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are: I am a beggar born," she said, "And not the Lady Clare". "If you are not the heiress born, And I," said he, "the lawful heir, We two will wed to-morrow morn, And you shall still be Lady Clare".

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. St. 1. Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. St. 2. Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love , and wild with all regret; O Death in Life, the days that are no more! St. 4. Let us bury the Great Duke To the noise of the mourning of a mighty nation; Mourning when their leaders fall, Warriors carry the warrior's pall, And sorrow darkens hamlet and hall. St.

I. Lead out the pageant: sad and slow, As fits an universal woe, Let the long, long procession go, And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, And let the mournful martial music blow; The last great Englishman is low. St. III. And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime. O good gray head which all men knew, O voice from which their omens all men drew, O iron nerve to true occasion true, O fallen at length that tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew! St. IV. Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew. St. IV. For this is England's greatest son, He that gained a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun. St. VI. Yea, let all good things await Him who cares not to be great But as he saves or serves the state. Not once or twice in our rough island-story The path of duty was the way to glory.

He that walks it, only thirsting For the right, and learns to deaden Love of self, before his journey closes, He shall find the stubborn thistle bursting Into glossy purples, which outredden All voluptuous garden-roses. Speak no more of his renown, Lay your earthly fancies down, And in the vast cathedral leave him, God accept him, Christ receive him! St. IX. Based upon the military confrontation known as The Charge of the Light Brigade during the Battle of Balaclava of the Crimean War Half a league half a league Half a league onward All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred: Charge for the guns' he said Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die: Into the valley of death Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them Volley'd and thunder'd; Storm'd at with shot and shell, Boldly they rode and well, Into the jaws of Death, Into the mouth of Hell Rode the six hundred. Storm'd at with shot and shell, While horse and hero fell, They that had fought so well Came thro' the jaws of Death Back from the mouth of Hell, All that was left of them, Left of six hundred. Perfectly beautiful: let it be granted her: where is the fault? All that I saw (for her eyes were downcast, not to be seen) Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null, Dead perfection, no more. That jewelled mass of millinery, That oiled and curled Assyrian Bull. Part I, section vi, stanza 6. One still strong man in a blatant land. Part I, section x, stanza 5. And ah for a man to arise in me, That the man I am may cease to be! Part I, section x, stanza 6.

Who shall call me ungentle, unfair, I long'd so heartily then and there To give him the grasp of fellowship; But while I past he was humming an air, Stopt, and then with a riding whip, Leisurely tapping a glossy boot, And curving a contumelious lip, Gorgonised me from head to foot With a stony British stare. Part I, section xiii, stanza 2. Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown, Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone; And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown. Part I, section xxii, stanza 1. For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky, To faint in the light of the sun she loves, To faint in his light, and to die. Part I, section xxii, stanza 2. All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon; To strike too soon is oft to miss the blow. Act iii, scene 6.

My lord, you know what Virgil sings— Woman is various and most mutable. Act iii, scene 6. To do him any wrong was to beget A kindness from him, for his heart was rich— Of such fine mould that if you sowed therein The seed of Hate, it blossomed Charity. Act iv, scene 1. Remember that sore saying spoken once By Him that was the Truth, 'How hard it is For the rich man to enter into heaven!' Let all rich men remember that hard word. Act iv, scene 3. Come out, my lord, it is a world of fools. Act iv, scene 3. At Flores in the Azores Sir Richard Grenville lay, And a pinnace, like a fluttered bird, came flying from far away: "Spanish ships of war at sea! we have sighted fifty-three!" Then sware Lord Thomas Howard: "'Fore God I am no coward; But I cannot meet them here, for my ships are out of gear, And the half my men are sick. I must fly, but follow quick. We are six ships of the line; can we fight with fifty-three?" St. 1.

Then spake Sir Richard Grenville: "I know you are no coward; You fly them for a moment to fight with them again. But I've ninety men and more that are lying sick ashore. I should count myself the coward if I left them, my Lord Howard, To these Inquisition dogs and the devildoms of Spain." St. 2. "Shall we fight or shall we fly? Good Sir Richard, tell us now, For to fight is but to die! There'll be little of us left by the time this sun be set." And Sir Richard said again: "We be all good English men. Let us bang these dogs of Seville, the children of the devil, For I never turn'd my back upon Don or devil yet." St. 4. Sir Richard spoke and he laughed, and we roared a hurrah, and so The little Revenge ran on sheer into the heart of the foe, With her hundred fighters on deck, and her ninety sick below; For half of their fleet to the right and half to the left were seen, And the little Revenge ran on through the long sea-lane between. St. 5.

Love your enemy, bless your haters, said the Greatest of the great ; Christian love among the Churches looked the twin of heathen hate. Line 85. Charm us, orator, till the lion look no larger than the cat. Line 112. You that woo the Voices—tell them "Old Experience is a fool"; Teach your flattered kings that only those who can not read can rule. Line 131. Authors—essayist, atheist, novelist, realist, rhymester, play your part, Paint the mortal shame of nature with the living hues of art. Line 139. Who can fancy warless men? Warless? War will die out late then. Will it ever? late or soon? Can it, till this outworn earth be dead as yon dead world the moon? Line 172. Yet the moonlight is the sunlight and the sun himself will pass. Line 182. Is there evil but on earth? or pain in every peopled sphere? Line 197. Is there evil but on earth? Or pain in every peopled sphere? Well, be grateful for the sounding watchword "Evolution" here.

Line 198. Evolution ever climbing after some ideal good And Reversion ever dragging Evolution in the mud. Line 200. Follow you the star that lights a desert pathway, yours or mine. Forward, till you see the Highest Human Nature is divine. Line 275. Love will conquer at the last. Line 280. Fires that shook me once, but now to silent ashes fall'n away. Cold upon the dead volcano sleeps the gleam of dying day. Stanza 21. Staled by frequence, shrunk by usage into commonest commonplace! Stanza 38. Here and there a cotter's babe is royal—born by right divine; Here and there my lord is lower than his oxen or his swine. Stanza 63. Nor is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool. Stanza 124. Sleep, mournful heart, and let the past be past: Sleep, happy soul, all life will sleep at last.

Song, Act I, Scene ii Friends, I am only merry for an hour or two Upon a birthday: if this life of ours Be a good glad thing, why should we make us merry Because a year of it is gone? but Hope Smiles from the threshold of the year to come Whispering 'It will be happier;' and old faces Press round us, and warm hands close with warm hands, And thro' the blood the wine leaps to the brain Like April sap to the topmost tree, that shoots New buds to heaven, whereon the throstle rock'd Sings a new song to the new year — and you, Strike up a song, my friends, and then to bed. Act I, Scene III.

Question: Which poet wrote the line, 'For men may come and men may go, but I go on forever"?
Answer: ALFRED LORD TENNYSON