This leaves me in awe of Lord Tennyson’s poetic talent- and near tears for the sadness of his life. A short biography
helped put this poem in perspective…as if he wrung his heart and out-poured Locksley Hall.
By Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Comrades, leave me here a little, while as yet ‘t is early morn:
Leave me here, and when you want me, sound upon the bugle-horn.
T is the place, and all around it, as of old, the curlews call,
Dreary gleams about the moorland flying over Locksley Hall;
Locksley Hall, that in the distance overlooks the sandy tracts,
And the hollow ocean-ridges roaring into cataracts.
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