Frederick Tennyson Poems

How sweet the harmonies of afternoon:
The Blackbird sings along the sunny breeze
His ancient song of leaves, and summer boon;
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How the blithe Lark runs up the golden stair
That leans through cloudy gates from Heaven to Earth,
And all alone in the empyreal air
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THE days are sad, it is the Holy tide:
   The Winter morn is short, the Night is long;
So let the lifeless Hours be glorified
   With deathless thoughts and echo'd in sweet song:
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