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(6 August 1809 – 6 October 1892 / Lincoln / England)

The Brook

I come from haunts of coot and hern,
I make a sudden sally
And sparkle out among the fern,
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Comments about this poem (Break, break, break by Alfred Lord Tennyson )

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  • Nick Homick (6/5/2013 2:31:00 AM)

    This poem (clearly a transcendentalist homage to scriptural reference [Ecclesiastes 1: 4]) really is alive because rather than the static (earth) , it refers to the dynamic (water) - the brook yet endures - but in contrast, One never steps in the same river twice... (Heraclitus) . It is the dynamic flow, the journey of the brook, and the merging into everything it encounters, that appeals. Indeed the human being is the brook, for what else babbles and chatters at every turn, bickers and visits so many towns, to murmur and croon to the moon (wether or not anyone is listening) . Humanity is not a part of nature, we are nature - if absolutely true to it. Often people describe human nature as aberrant (war, sin, vice, etc...) - which is propaganda of the oppressor. I very strongly believe that Tennyson and I could be in agreement that nature IS true humanity - propaganda of the partner. The natural inclination of humanity to the Transcendentalists is reverence to nature in a divine sense. Our essence is goodness and self-reliance. Nature is not subordinate to us, but instead nature exists in symbiotic relationship. Likewise, nature transcends itself - for it is not one thing that creates beauty - but rather the relationship between things; nature is never static, and the more one finds it's place in it: the more beautiful it becomes. Every natural environment is whole, complete, and everything in it is doing exactly as it should. Beauty only exists if there is a viewer, it is never solitary. Likewise, reverence is always a partnership. The more that we surrender to our natural relationship with nature, the more true we become, to ourselves and the world - and, the more likely we are to endure forever. For certainly, the more separate we make ourselves from nature - the more we destroy it. Why destroy ourselves? Why kill our planet? Why be indifferent to the other creatures?

    66 person liked.
    12 person did not like.
  • Anoushka Chauhan (4/16/2013 10:21:00 AM)

    this poem is my most favourite poem, and the poet is also good 2

  • Lee Sadoway (11/23/2012 11:52:00 AM)

    My father had memorized this poem in grade school backmin the 1930's. One of my lasting memories of him was him reciting this beautiful poem to me when I was a child. I read this poem aloud in honouring his memory at his funeral at sea while we committed his ashes to the deep.

  • Tk Bakshi (8/12/2012 7:50:00 AM)

    The flow, the bounce, the word picture, the management of language makes this poem a classic Masterpiece. the creatin of a genius.
    One of my favorits

  • Brooke Burawski (8/7/2012 9:31:00 PM)

    Hey! Brook - that's me!

  • Ujjwal Rastogi (8/2/2012 7:51:00 AM)

    this poem is best

  • Rishav Koirala (7/6/2012 8:06:00 AM)

    What beautiful imageries!

  • Mamta Agarwal (4/6/2010 5:02:00 AM)

    simple, yet enchanting, absolutely delightful, the poem is one of the few i read in school. everytime i read i am transported to himalayas, where i saw these kinds of brroks, Tennyson describes with such gay abandon.


  • Aleen Ye (9/25/2009 1:31:00 AM)


  • Graham Wallis (6/2/2009 9:30:00 PM)

    As with all evocative poetry, it's hard to distinguish love for the inherent qualities from love of the memories conveyed. One of the first poems that I remember being read to me by my father, it means sitting in the lounge on a winter Sunday afternoon. It means damming the local streams with my brother and friends. It means walking the dog through the Cowleigh woods. But it takes that wonderful alliteration and onomatopoeia to give those memories. A poem within a poem, it's as if Tennyson has licence to go over the top, parodying the tools of the poet. There is so much music in those words; each simple verse is both a snapshot of a stretch of stream, and of a period of life. One wants the poem, like the brook, to go on for ever.

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