From scarped cliff and quarried stone
She cries, ‘A thousand types are gone:
I care for nothing, all shall go.
makest thine appeal to me:
her last work, who seem’d so fair,
trusted God was love indeed
loved, who suffer’d countless ills,
more? A monster then, a dream,
life as futile, then, as frail!
In Memoriam A.H.H. Index
Chronological Index of Tennyson's Works
Timeline of Tennyson's Life
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