#AlfredTennyson #LordTennyson Lord Tennyson (Alfred Tennyson) nació en Somersby, Lincolnshire, Inglaterra, en 1809, y murió en Lurgashall, Sussex Occidental, Inglaterra, en 1892. Poeta y dramaturgo del posromanticismo inglés, aunque es sobre todo conocido por su poesía. Cada día tiene su noche Cada día tiene su noche, Cada noche su mañana: Resplandecientes y oscuras, las horas aladas son llevadas bien, bien lejos. Las estaciones florecen y decaen; La dorada calma y la tormenta, Día a día, se frecuentan. No hay una sola brillante forma Que no arroje sombra, Bien, bien lejos. Cuando reímos, y nuestra alegría Simula la veta feliz de la piedra, Somos tan parecidos a la tierra Como al dolor del padre, Bien, bien lejos. La locura se ríe a carcajadas, La risa trae lágrimas, Los ojos se desgastan, Hasta que los miedos Llegan con la mortaja, Bien, bien lejos. Todo es cambio, Aflicción o riqueza, La alegría es hermana de la tristeza; La pena y el regocijo Se roban los símbolos; Bien, bien lejos. Las alondras en el paraíso cantan, Las palomas se lamentan Día a día, sin tardanza; Pero no te desanimes; Lloremos juntos en la esperanza. Bien, bien lejos. Every Day Hath its Night Every day hath its night: Every night its morn: Thorough dark and bright Wingèd hours are borne; Ah! welaway! Seasons flower and fade; Golden calm and storm Mingle day by day. There is no bright form Doth not cast a shade Ah! welaway! When we laugh, and our mirth Apes the happy vein, We're so kin to earth, Pleasaunce fathers pain Ah! welaway! Madness laugheth loud: Laughter bringeth tears: Eyes are worn away Till the end of fears Cometh in the shroud, Ah! welaway! All is change, woe or weal; Joy is Sorrow's brother; Grief and gladness steal Symbols of each other; Ah! welaway! Larks in heaven's cope Sing: the culvers mourn All the livelong day. Be not all forlorn; Let us weep, in hope Ah! welaway! * * * All Things Will Die Clearly the blue river chimes in its flowing Under my eye; Warmly and broadly the south winds are blowing Over the sky. One after another the white clouds are fleeting; Every heart this May morning in joyance is beating Full merrily; Yet all things must die. The stream will cease to flow; The wind will cease to blow; The clouds will cease to fleet; The heart will cease to beat; For all things must die. All things must die. Spring will come never more. Oh! vanity! Death waits at the door. See! our friends are all forsaking The wine and the merrymaking. We are called we must go. Laid low, very low, In the dark we must lie. The merry glees are still; The voice of the bird Shall no more be heard, Nor the wind on the hill. Oh! misery! Hark! death is calling While I speak to ye, The jaw is falling, The red cheek paling, The strong limbs failing; Ice with the warm blood mixing; The eyeballs fixing. Nine times goes the passing bell: Ye merry souls, farewell. The old earth Had a birth, As all men know, Long ago. And the old earth must die. So let the warm winds range, And the blue wave beat the shore; For even and morn Ye will never see Through eternity. All things were born. Ye will come never more, For all things must die. https://www.actualidadliteratura.com/tennyson-verlaine-frases-poemas/ http://elespejogotico.blogspot.com/2008/05/alfred-tennyson-poemas-en-espaol.html
http://famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/lord_alfred_tennyson/poems
http://www.amediavoz.com/tennyson.htm
https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alfred_Tennyson https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1dryb5Qnf6o
