Alfred Lord Tennyson

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

Alfred Lord Tennyson Poems

161. O, Were I Loved As I Desire To Be! 1/1/2004
162. The Revenge - A Ballad Of The Fleet 1/1/2004
163. In Memoriam 16: I Envy Not In Any Moods 1/1/2004
164. Freedom 4/8/2010
165. O Beauty, Passing Beauty! 1/1/2004
166. The Owl 1/1/2004
167. Amphion 1/1/2004
168. The Charge Of The Light Brigade 4/8/2010
169. Demeter And Persephone 1/1/2004
170. Come Into The Garden, Maud 1/1/2004
171. Far-Far-Away 4/8/2010
172. By An Evolutionist 1/1/2004
173. Beautiful City 1/1/2004
174. Blow, Bugle, Blow 1/1/2004
175. After-Thought 1/1/2004
176. The Kraken 4/8/2010
177. Tears, Idle Tears 1/1/2004
178. Ring Out , Wild Bells 4/8/2010
179. Ask Me No More 1/1/2004
180. Cradle Song 1/1/2004
181. The Lady Of Shalott (1842) 1/1/2004
182. Come Not When I Am Dead 1/1/2004
183. The Flower 1/1/2004
184. Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead 1/1/2004
185. ‘and Ask Ye Why These Sad Tears Stream?’ 1/1/2004
186. Break, Break, Break 4/8/2010
187. The Eagle 1/1/2004
188. A Farewell 1/1/2004
189. Charge Of The Light Brigade 1/1/2004
190. All Things Will Die 1/1/2004
191. Crossing The Bar 1/1/2004
192. The Brook 1/1/2004
193. Ulysses 1/1/2004

Comments about Alfred Lord Tennyson

  • Chris Hoare (5/22/2005 11:33:00 AM)

    there seem to be some missing words. Would the web manager please check and correct?

    54 person liked.
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Best Poem of Alfred Lord Tennyson

Ulysses

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,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel; I will drink
Life to the lees. All times I have enjoy'd
Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea. I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known,-- cities of men ...

Read the full of Ulysses

The Garden

Excerpt from "Maud"

She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead,
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.

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