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Marriage Morning
Light, so low upon earth,
You send a flash to the sun.
Here is the golden close of love,
All my wooing is done.
Oh, all the woods and the meadows,
Woods, where we hid from the wet,
Stiles where we stayed to be kind,
Meadows in which we met!
Light, so low in the vale
You flash and lighten afar,
For this is the golden morning of love,
And you are his morning star.
Flash, I am coming, I come,
By meadow and stile and wood,
Oh, lighten into my eyes and my heart,
Into my heart and my blood!
Heart, are you great enough
For a love that never tires?
O heart, are you great enough for love?
I have heard of thorns and briers.
Over the thorns and briers,
Over the meadows and stiles,
Over the world to the end of it
Flash of a million miles.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809-1892)
Marriage Morning
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Tennyson, Alfred Lord
Late, Late, so Late
Late, late, so late! and dark the night and chill!
Late, late, so late! but we can enter still.
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.
No light had we: for that we do repent;
And learning this, the bridegroom will relent.
Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.
No light: so late! and dark and chill the night!
O, let us in, that we may find the light!
Too late, too late: ye cannot enter now.
Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet?
O, let us in, tho’ late, to kiss his feet!
No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now.”
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809-1892)
Late, Late, so Late
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
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Crossing the Bar
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho’ from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crost the bar.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809-1892)
Crossing the Bar
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
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Milton
(Alcaics)
O mighty-mouth’d inventor of harmonies,
O skill’d to sing of Time or Eternity,
God-gifted organ-voice of England,
Milton, a name to resound for ages;
Whose Titan angels, Gabriel, Abdiel,
Starr’d from Jehovah’s gorgeous armouries,
Tower, as the deep-domed empyrean
Rings to the roar of an angel onset—
Me rather all that bowery loneliness,
The brooks of Eden mazily murmuring,
And bloom profuse and cedar arches
Charm, as a wanderer out in ocean,
Where some refulgent sunset of India
Streams o’er a rich ambrosial ocean isle,
And crimson-hued the stately palm-woods
Whisper in odorous heights of even.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809-1892)
Milton
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
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The Eagle
He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring’d with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809-1892)
The Eagle
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Department of Birds of Prey, Department of Ravens & Crows, Tennyson, Alfred Lord
Break, Break, Break
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O, well for the fisherman’s boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O, well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanish’d hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809-1892)
Break, Break, Break
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
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Maud
Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.
For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.
All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr’d
To the dancers dancing in tune;
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.
I said to the lily, ‘There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play.’
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.
I said to the rose, ‘The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine,’ so I sware to the rose,
‘For ever and ever, mine.’
And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash’d in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;
From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewel-print of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.
The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh’d for the dawn and thee.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls.
To the flowers, and be their sun.
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, ‘She is near, she is near;’
And the white rose weeps, ‘She is late;’
The larkspur listens, ‘I hear, I hear;’
And the lily whispers, ‘I wait.’
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.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809 – 1892)
Maud
Published in 1855.
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Archive S-T, Tennyson, Alfred Lord
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 dismay’d?
Not tho’ the soldier knew
Some one had blunder’d:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
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
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash’d all their sabres bare,
Flash’d as they turn’d in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder’d:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro’ the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel’d from the sabre-stroke
Shatter’d and sunder’d.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley’d and thunder’d;
Storm’d 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 wonder’d.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809-1892)
The Charge of the Light Brigade
• fleursdumal.nl magazine
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Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809 – 1892)
The Deserted House
Life and Thought have gone away
Side by side,
Leaving door and windows wide.
Careless tenants they!
All within is dark as night:
In the windows is no light;
And no murmur at the door,
So frequent on its hinge before.
Close the door; the shutters close;
Or through the windows we shall see
The nakedness and vacancy
Of the dark deserted house.
Come away: no more of mirth
Is here or merry-making sound.
The house was builded of the earth,
And shall fall again to ground.
Come away: for Life and Thought
Here no longer dwell;
But in a city glorious –
A great and distant city -have bought
A mansion incorruptible.
Would they could have stayed with us!
Alfred Lord Tennyson
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Tennyson, Alfred Lord
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809 – 1892)
Beauty
Oh, Beauty, passing beauty! sweetest Sweet!
How canst thou let me waste my youth in sighs;
I only ask to sit beside thy feet.
Thou knowest I dare not look into thine eyes,
Might I but kiss thy hand! I dare not fold
My arms about thee—scarcely dare to speak.
And nothing seems to me so wild and bold,
As with one kiss to touch thy blessèd cheek.
Methinks if I should kiss thee, no control
Within the thrilling brain could keep afloat
The subtle spirit. Even while I spoke,
The bare word KISS hath made my inner soul
To tremble like a lutestring, ere the note
Hath melted in the silence that it broke.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Tennyson, Alfred Lord
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809-1892)
The Brook
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 thorpes, 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 for ever.
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 for ever.
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 waterbreak
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 for ever.
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 for ever.
Alfred Lord Tennyson poetry
fleursdumal.nl magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Tennyson, Alfred Lord
J.W. Waterhouse: The lady of Shalott (1888)
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(1809-1892)
The Lady Of Shalott
I
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road runs by
To many-tower’d Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle embowers
The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow-veil’d,
Slide the heavy barges trail’d
By slow horses; and unhailed
The shallop flitteth, silken-sail’d
Skimming down to Camelot
Yet who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she know in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the beared barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly,
Down to towered Camelot:
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, ” ‘Tis the fairy
Lady of Shalott.”
II
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair’d page in crimson clad,
Goes by to tower’d Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two:
She hath no loyal knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror’s magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
“I am half sick of shadows,” said
The Lady of Shalott.
III
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro’ the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneeled
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter’d free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon’d baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell’d shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn’d like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro’ the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, trailing light,
Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow’d;
On burnish’d hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow’d
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
“Tirra lirra,” by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look’d down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack’d from side to side;
“The curse is come upon me,” cried
The Lady of Shalott.
IV
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower’d Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river’s dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance —
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right —
The leaves upon her falling light —
Thro’ the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn’d to tower’d Camelot.
For ere she reach’d upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and burgher, lord and dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, “She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott.”
Alfred Lord Tennyson
De Jonkvrouw van Shalot
DEEL I
1
Langs beide waterkanten staan
De velden vol met rijpend graan;
Zij kleden land en luchten aan,
En dwars erdoor slingert een laan
Naar ‘t torenrijke Camelot;
En mensen trekken heen en weer;
Zij blikken in bewondering neer
Op ‘t eiland daar met lelies teer,
Het eiland van Shalot.
2
Door de briesjes meegenomen
Trilt het blad van espenbomen,
En de golven gaan en komen
Als ze langs het eiland stromen
Op hun weg naar Camelot.
Tussen grijze torenmuren,
Waartegen vele bloemen schuren,
Zit de stilte te verduren
De Jonkvrouw van Shalot.
3
Aan de oever wilgbeplant
Trekt het paard traag langs de kant
Een zware bark; ver van de rand
Zeilt er een sloep met zijden want
Voor de wind naar Camelot:
Wie zag haar wuiven met haar hand?
Of staan nabij de vensterrand?
En kent men haar wel in het land,
De Jonkvrouw van Shalot?
4
Slechts de maaier van het koren
Kan in ‘t vroege ochtendgloren
Helder klinkend zingen horen
Echoënd vanaf de toren,
Naar het transrijk Camelot:
En als hij moe en traag in ‘t maanlicht
In de akker schoven opricht,
Luistert hij en zegt: “dit elf-wicht
Is jonkvrouw van Shalot.”
DEEL II
5
Binnen weeft zij, dag en nacht,
Een magisch web vol kleurenpracht.
Eens zei daar een stem haar zacht,
Dat haar een vloek treft als zij dacht
Uit te zien naar Camelot.
De aard der vloek werd niet gehoord,
Dus weeft zij steeds gestadig voort,
Door weinig andere zorg verstoord,
De Jonkvrouw van Shalot.
6
En in een heldere spiegel daar
Die voor haar hangt door ‘t hele jaar,
Vertoont in schaduw zich aan haar
De wereld, en maakt haar gewaar
De weg die leidt naar Camelot:
Kolkend loost de stroom zijn last,
En kerels, boers, onaangepast,
En marketentsters, roodgejast,
Gaan langs vanuit Shalot.
7
Soms ook meisjes blij van aard,
Een abt traag sjokkend op zijn paard,
Een herdersknecht met krullenbaard,
Een page in ‘t rood en lang gehaard,
Gaan daar voorbij naar Camelot;
Soms ziet zij in haar spiegelbaan
Edelen te paard getweeën gaan;
Trouw bood geen ridder haar ooit aan,
De Jonkvrouw van Shalot.
8
Maar in haar web weeft zij nog blij
Een spiegelbeeld, al ging ‘t voorbij,
Want vaak trok ‘s nachts in ‘t stil getij
Een lijkstoet langs, in lichte rij
En met muziek, naar Camelot;
Maar eens bij nacht en heldere maan,
Kwam er een jeugdig bruidspaar aan:
Toen sprak, “Door schaduw ben ‘k ontdaan,”
De Jonkvrouw van Shalot.
DEEL III
9
Een pijlschot af van waar zij was
Bij ‘t raam, reed hij door graan en vlas;
Fel scheen de zon door het gewas,
En vlamde op ‘t brons van het kuras
Van dappere Heer Lancelot.
Een kruistochtridder lag geknield
Voor ‘n jonkvrouw op zijn schild,
Dat straalde als hij ‘t voor zich hield,
Ver weg daar bij Shalot.
10
De leidselparels blonken vrij
Als sterren die zich voegen bij
De gouden straal der Melkweg rij.
De teugelbellen luidden blij,
Terwijl hij reed naar Camelot.
En van zijn schouderband en flank
Hing een signaalhoorn zilverblank;
Te paard, weerklonk de harnasklank,
Ver weg daar bij Shalot.
11
En in het wolkvrij blauwe weer
Glom sieraadrijk het zadelleer,
Met fraaie helm,en helmenveer
Gedrieën vlammend eens te meer,
Terwijl hij reed naar Camelot.
Zoals zo vaak bij purperen nacht,
Een luchtsteen, die in sterrenpracht
Gehuld, een lichtstaart met zich bracht,
Schiet over stil Shalot.
12
De zon beschijnt zijn stoer gelaat;
De strijdros hoef flitst in de maat;
Zwart krullend haar in overdaad
Ontsnapt zijn helm, als hij daar gaat
De heirweg af naar Camelot.
In de spiegel, via ‘t water,
Ontstonden flitsen en geklater,
Want: “Latiere-liere-later”
Zong Heer Lancelot.
13
Ze spon en weefde nu niet meer,
Ze trad naar ‘t raam, en keek daar neer,
Ze zag de waterlelies teer,
Ze zag de helm en helmenveer,
Zij keek uit naar Camelot.
Weg vloog het web, en dreef ver heen;
De spiegel spatte plots uiteen;
“De vloek is hier,” kreet in geween
De Jonkvrouw van Shalot.
DEEL IV
14
In de Ooster stormwind zwaaiend
Taande ‘t bleke woud verwaaiend,
Klaagde ‘t water heftig draaiend,
Sloeg de regen onrust zaaiend
Neer op ‘t transrijk Camelot;
Zij daalde af en vond een boot
Aan ‘n wilg bevestigd met zijn schoot,
En om de boeg heen schreef zij groot:
“De Jonkvrouw van Shalot”.
15
En langs het schimmig watervlak –
Gelijk een visionair, in zak
En as, toen voorspoed hem ontbrak-
Wierp zij met oog verglaasd en strak
Blikken richting Camelot.
De avond eenmaal ingeluid,
Viert zij de schoot, en strekt zich uit,
Dan drijft zij weg door niets gestuit,
De Jonkvrouw van Shalot.
16
Liggend, in sneeuwwitte dracht
Los zwevend, en op niets verdacht –
Bladeren haar rakend licht en zacht –
Dreef zij door klanken van de nacht
Het water af naar Camelot:
Terwijl de boot zich leiden liet
Langs wilgenveld en berggebied,
Zong nog haar allerlaatste lied
De Jonkvrouw van Shalot.
17
Verzen klonken, vroom en klagend,
Schallend soms, vaak niet ver dragend,
Tot, haar hartslag zich vertragend,
En in haar oog het licht vervagend,
Zij verscheen in Camelot.
Bij ‘t eerste huis waar in ‘t getij
Zij aankwam aan de kade-zij,
Stierf, haar zingen nu voorbij,
De Jonkvrouw van Shalot.
18
Langs tuin- en torenmuur van steen,
Balkon na galerij, aaneen,
Dreef zij zo, als een schim, alleen
En lijkbleek, langs de huizen heen,
Doodstil binnen Camelot.
Naar de kade kwam al gauw,
Ridder, burger, heer en vrouw;
Zij lazen daar voorop de schouw:
“De Jonkvrouw van Shalot”.
19
Wie is zij toch? Wat is dat hier?
En in het slot vol van vertier
Verstomde ‘t koninklijk plezier;
En kruisen sloeg, eer bang dan fier,
Het ridderdom van Camelot.
Maar Lancelot was niet ontwricht:
Hij zei, “Zij heeft een mooi gezicht;
God lone haar in zijn gericht,
De Jonkvrouw van Shalot.”
Vertaling Cornelis W. Schoneveld
Opgenomen in: Klankrijk en vol furie, 27 verhalende en beschouwende Engelse gedichten uit de 16e -19e eeuw.
Vertaald en toegelicht door Cornelis W. Schoneveld, Boekwinkeltjes-reeks, Assen
www.boekwinkeltjes.nl/reeks – ISBN 9789087480004 / NUR 306
Alfred Lord Tennyson: The Lady Of Shalott (1842 Version)
kempis.nl poetry magazine
More in: Archive S-T, Tennyson, Tennyson, Alfred Lord
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