Lord Alfred Tennyson

Seeming genial, venial fault.

Seeming genial, venial fault.

I held it truth, with him who sings
To one clear harp in divers tones,
That men read more

I held it truth, with him who sings
To one clear harp in divers tones,
That men may rise on stepping stones
Or their dead selves to higher things.

Our wills are ours, we know not how;
Our wills are ours, to make them thine.

Our wills are ours, we know not how;
Our wills are ours, to make them thine.

Modred's narrow foxy face,
Heart hiding smile, and gray persistent eye.

Modred's narrow foxy face,
Heart hiding smile, and gray persistent eye.

And lives to clutch the golden keys,
To mould a mighty state's decrees,
And shape the whisper read more

And lives to clutch the golden keys,
To mould a mighty state's decrees,
And shape the whisper of the throne.