Frases de Alfred Tennyson
Alfred Tennyson
Data de nascimento: 6. Agosto 1809
Data de falecimento: 6. Outubro 1892
Outros nomes:Alfred Lord Tennyson, Lord Alfred Tennyson
Alfred Tennyson, 1º Barão de Tennyson , foi um poeta inglês. Estudou no Trinity College, em Cambridge. Viveu longos anos com sua esposa na ilha de Wight por seu amor à vida sossegada do campo.
Muita da sua poesia baseou-se em temas clássicos mitológicos, embora In Memoriam tenha sido escrito em honra de Arthur Hallam, um poeta amigo e colega de Trinity College, Cambridge, que esteve noivo da sua irmã, mas que que morreu devido a uma hemorragia cerebral antes de casar. Uma das obras mais famosas de Tennyson é Idylls of the King , um conjunto de poemas narrativos baseados nas aventuras do Rei Artur e dos seus Cavaleiros da Távola Redonda, inspirados nas lendas antigas de Thomas Malory. A obra foi dedicada ao Princípe Alberto, o consorte da Rainha Vitória. Tennyson fez também algumas incursões pelo teatro, mas as suas peças tiveram pouco sucesso durante a sua vida.
Autores parecidos
William Shakespeare550
dramaturgo e poeta inglês
Fernando Pessoa928
poeta português
Edgar Allan Poe31
Escritor, poeta e crítico americanoCitações Alfred Tennyson
„Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.“
— Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Context: Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me —
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads — you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil.
Death closes all; but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.
l. 46-53
„Death is the end of life; ah, why
Should life all labour be?“
— Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Context: Death is the end of life; ah, why
Should life all labour be?
Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast,
And in a little while our lips are dumb.
Let us alone. What is it that will last?
All things are taken from us, and become
Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.
Let us alone. What pleasure can we have
To war with evil? Is there any peace
In ever climbing up the climbing wave?
All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave
In silence; ripen, fall and cease:
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
Choric Song, st. 4
„The poet in a golden clime was born,
With golden stars above;
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,
The love of love.“
— Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Context: The poet in a golden clime was born,
With golden stars above;
Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,
The love of love.
He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill,
He saw thro' his own soul.
The marvel of the everlasting will,
An open scroll,
Before him lay; with echoing feet he threaded
The secretest walks of fame:
The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed
And wing'd with flame,
Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue...
