Blow, bugle, blow set the wild echoes flying Blow, bugle answer, echoes dying, dying, dying.
More Quotes from Alfred Lord Tennyson:
On the bald street breaks the blank day.Alfred Lord Tennyson
The lion on your old stone gates; Is not more cold to you than I.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Sleep, Death's twin-brother, knows not Death, Nor can I dream of thee as dead.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Is there any peace; In ever climbing up the climbing wave.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
A rosebud set with little wilful thorns, And sweet as English air could make her, she.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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