by Alfred Lord Tennyson
O plump head-waiter at The Cock, To which I most resort, How goes the time? ’Tis five o’clock. Go fetch a pint of port: But let it not be such as that You set before chance-comers,… Read the rest
O plump head-waiter at The Cock, To which I most resort, How goes the time? ’Tis five o’clock. Go fetch a pint of port: But let it not be such as that You set before chance-comers,… Read the rest
You ask me, why, tho' ill at ease, Within this region I subsist, Whose spirits falter in the mist, And languish for the purple seas. It is the land that freemen till, That sober-suited Freedom chose,… Read the rest
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,… Read the rest
I. Many a hearth upon our dark globe sighs after many a vanish’d face, Many a planet by many a sun may roll with the dust of a vanish’d race. II. Raving politics, never at rest–as… Read the rest
Glory of warrior, glory of orator, glory of song, Paid with a voice flying by to be lost on an endless sea– Glory of Virtue, to fight, to struggle, to right the wrong– Nay, but she… Read the rest
John. I’m glad I walk’d. 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.… Read the rest
Why do they prate of the blessings of peace? we have made them a curse, Pickpockets, each hand lusting for all that is not its own; And lust of gain, in the spirit of Cain, is… Read the rest
I. O well for him whose will is strong! He suffers, but he will not suffer long; He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong: For him nor moves the loud world’s random mock, Nor all Calamity’s… Read the rest
January, 1854 Come, when no graver cares employ, Godfather, come and see your boy: Your presence will be sun in winter, Making the little one leap for joy. For, being of that honest few, Who give… Read the rest
Brooks, for they call’d you so that knew you best, Old Brooks, who loved so well to mouth my rhymes, How oft we two have heard St. Mary’s chimes! How oft the Cantab supper, host and… Read the rest