I envy not in any moods
      The captive void of noble rage,
      The linnet born within the cage,
That never knew the summer woods:

I envy not the beast that takes
      His license in the field of time,
      Unfetter'd by the sense of crime,
To whom a conscience never wakes;

Nor, what may count itself as blest,
      The heart that never plighted troth
      But stagnates in the weeds of sloth;
Nor any want-begotten rest.

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
      I feel it, when I sorrow most;
      'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.


Victorian Website Overview Alfred Lord Tennyson In Memoriam Leading Questions next

Last modified 14 February 2010