An English homegrey twilight poured On dewy pasture, dewy trees, Softer than sleepall things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.
Alfred Lord TennysonThe woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world.
Alfred Lord TennysonIt may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round.
Alfred Lord Tennyson