Quote #129
As thro' the land at eve we went, And pluck'd the ripen'd ears, We fell out, my wife and I, O we fell out I know not why, And kiss'd again with tears.
More from Alfred (Lord) Tennyson
- A rosebud set with little wilful thorns, And sweet as English air could make her, she.
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- 'If I come dressed like a village maid, I am but as my fortunes are: I am a beggar born,' she said, 'And not the Lady Clare.'
- O love, they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.