Lord Alfred Tennyson

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call;
It was when the moon was setting, and the read more

All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call;
It was when the moon was setting, and the dark was over all;
The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll,
And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul.

Ah! well away!
Seasons flower and fade.

Ah! well away!
Seasons flower and fade.

Some full-breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and read more

Some full-breasted swan
That, fluting a wild carol ere her death,
Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood
With swarthy webs.

And from his ashes may be made
The violet of his native land.

And from his ashes may be made
The violet of his native land.

And grasps the skirts of happy chance,
And breasts the blows of circumstance.

And grasps the skirts of happy chance,
And breasts the blows of circumstance.