Alfred Lord Tennyson (6 August 1809 – 6 October 1892 / Lincoln / England)
What sight so lured him thro' the fields he knew
As where earth's green stole into heaven's own hue,
What sound was dearest in his native dells?
The mellow lin-lan-lone of evening bells
What vague world-whisper, mystic pain or joy,
Thro' those three words would haunt him when a boy,
A whisper from his dawn of life? a breath
From some fair dawn beyond the doors of death
Far, far, how far? from o'er the gates of birth,
The faint horizons, all the bounds of earth,
What charm in words, a charm no words could give?
O dying words, can Music make you live
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