Alfred Lord Tennyson Poems

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,
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HALF a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
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I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally
And sparkle out among the fern,
To bicker down a valley.
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Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
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All Things will Die

Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing
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Flow down, cold rivulet, to the sea,
Thy tribute wave deliver:
No more by thee my steps shall be,
For ever and for ever.
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Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
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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;
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'And ask ye why these sad tears stream?'

‘Te somnia nostra reducunt.’
OVID.
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Once in a golden hour
I cast to earth a seed.
Up there came a flower,
The people said, a weed.
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