
I was grading some of my students’ work recently. I had a young man allude to some of the many famous lines from literature. My student wrongly attributed them to Dickens. Dickens is certainly a master, but in the prose form, not in the poetic one.
I gently corrected the student and redirected him to the actual author, Tennyson.
And from Tennyson’s “In Memoriam,” a poem about his dear but departed friend, here’s the last section of one of Tennyson’s masterpieces:
XXVII from “In Memoriam”:
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.









