Happy Birthday, Alfred
Born today in 1809 in Somersby in Lincolnshire, England, Alfred Tennyson, later (at 75 and for his poetry!!!) Baron Tennyson. The most popular and best-selling poet of his day (or any, probably), he outsold even Dickens.
Requiescat
Fair is her cottage in its place,
Where yon broad water sweetly slowly glides.
It sees itself from thatch to base
Dream in the sliding tides.
And fairer she, but ah how soon to die!
Her quiet dream of life this hour may cease.
Her peaceful being slowly passes by
To some more perfect peace.
Break, Break, Break
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish'd hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
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.
1 Comments:
Ah, Tennyson. One of my all-time favorite poets. His In Memoriam is one of the few books I read over and over. Thanks for giving him some recognition on his special day!
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