The Brook's Song

 I come from haunts of coot and hern,
 I make a sudden sally,
 And sparkle out among the fern,
 To bicker down a valley.
By thirty hills I hurry down,
 Or slip between the ridges,
 By twenty thorps, a little town,
 And half a hundred bridges.
 Till last by Philip's farm I flow
 To join the brimming river,
 For men may come and men may go,
 But I go on forever.
 I chatter over stony ways,
 In little sharps and trebles,
I bubble into eddying bays,
 I babble on the pebbles.
With many a curve my banks I fret
 By many a field and fallow,
 And many a fairy foreland set
 With willow-weed and mallow.
I chatter, chatter, as I flow
 To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
 But I go on forever.
 I wind about, and in and out,
With here a blossom sailing,
And here and there a lusty trout,
 And here and there a grayling,
And here and there a foamy flake
 Upon me, as I travel
With many a silvery water-break
 Above the golden gravel,
And draw them all along, and flow
 To join the brimming river,
 For men may come and men may go,
 But I go on forever.
 I steal by lawns and grassy plots,
 I slide by hazel covers;
 I move the sweet forget-me-nots
 That grow for happy lovers.
 I slip, I slide, I gloom, I glance,
 Among my skimming swallows,
 I make the netted sunbeam dance
 Against my sandy shallows.
 I murmur under moon and stars
 In brambly wildernesses;
I linger by my shingly bars,
 I loiter round my cresses;
 And out again I curve and flow
 To join the brimming river,
 For men may come and men may go,
 But I go on forever.

 (From The Brook)
Alfred Lord Tennyson

A man

Ah, God, for a man with heart, head, hand,
 Like some of the simple great gone
 Forever and ever by,
One still strong man in a blatant land,
Whatever they call him, what care I,
Aristocrat, democrat, autocrat
-one Who can rule and dare not lie.

-Tennyson

THE MILLER'S DAUGHTER

It is the miller's daughter,

         And she is grown so dear, so dear,

     That I would be the jewel

That trembles in her ear:

For hid in ringlets day and night,

I'd touch her neck so warm and white.

And I would be the girdle

About her dainty, dainty waist,

And her heart would beat against me,

In sorrow and in rest:

And I should know if it beat right,

I'd clasp it round so close and tight.

And I would be the necklace,

         And all day long to fall and rise

Upon her balmy bosom,

With her laughter or her sighs:

 And I would lie so light, so light,

 I scarce should be unclasp'd at night.

                                           -Lord Tennyson

THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the Valley of Death

     Rode the six hundred.

"Forward; the Light Brigade!

 Charge for the guns!" he said;

 Into the Valley of Death

       Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"

Was there a man dismayed?

 Not tho' the soldier knew

       Someone had blundered;

Theirs not to make reply.

Theirs but to do and die;

Into the Valley of Death

       Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

         Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of Hell

          Rode the six hundred

Flashed all their sabres bare,

Flashed as they turned in air,

Sab’ring the gunners there,

Charging an army, while

      All the world wondered;

Plunged in the battery smoke

Right thro' the line they broke.

Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the sabre stroke

       Shattered and sundered;

Then they rode back, but not,

       Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,

Cannon to left of them,

Cannon in front of them

        Volleyed and thundered;

 Stormed ,at with shot and shell,

While horse and hero fell,

They that had fought so well

Came thro' the jaws of Death,

Back from the mouth of Hell,

All that was left of them,

       Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?

O, the wild charge they made.

        All the world wondered.

Honor the charge they made,

Honor the Light Brigade,

            Noble six hundred!

                   Alfred Tennyson.