On this day in 1808 English Poet Alfred Lord Tennyson was born. The son of a Lincolnshire clergyman, he held the post of Poet Laureate for a remarkable 42 years and wrote an enormous number of poems.
Considered by many to be the greatest of the Victorian poets, his work has been admired by many for its command of language. Much of his poetry is tinged with sadness and regret, perhaps a result of his father’s alcoholism and his own dysfunctional childhood.
The English poet WH Auden unkindly commented: “There was little about melancholia he didn’t know; there was little else that he did.”
This extract from his poem Idylls of the King, on the passing of King Arthur, rather illustrates the point;

And slowly answered Arthur from the barge:
The old order changeth, yielding place to new,
And God fulfils Himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me?
I have lived my life, and that which I have done
May He within Himself make pure! but thou,
If thou shouldst never see my face again,
Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?

Today I ask that every choice I make will be for the right reason and that my conscience will not allow me to get away with falsehood.