Maud : a monodrama / Alfred, Lord Tennyson
dc.contributor | Burnard, Lou Computing Service University of Oxford Oxford |
dc.contributor.author | Tennyson, Alfred Tennyson, Baron, 1809-1892 |
dc.coverage.placeName | London |
dc.date.accessioned | 2018-07-27 |
dc.date.accessioned | 2022-08-19T14:36:39Z |
dc.date.available | 2022-08-19T14:36:39Z |
dc.date.created | 1855 |
dc.date.issued | 1987-12-17 |
dc.identifier | ota:1196 |
dc.identifier.uri | http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.14106/1196 |
dc.description.abstract | Partial contents: Maud : a monodrama, pp. 1037-1093 |
dc.format.extent | Text data (1 file : ca. 53 KB) |
dc.format.medium | Digital bitstream |
dc.language | English |
dc.language.iso | eng |
dc.publisher | University of Oxford |
dc.relation.ispartof | Oxford Text Archive Core Collection |
dc.rights | Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License. |
dc.rights.uri | http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/3.0/ |
dc.rights.label | PUB |
dc.subject.lcsh | English poetry -- 19th century |
dc.subject.other | Poems |
dc.title | Maud : a monodrama / Alfred, Lord Tennyson |
dc.type | Text |
has.files | yes |
branding | Oxford Text Archive |
branding | Oxford Text Archive |
files.size | 53305 |
files.count | 1 |
otaterms.date.range | 1800-1899 |
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<T MAUD> <P PART I> <P I> <S I> I hate the dreadful hollow behind the little wood, Its lips in the field above are dabbled with blood-red heath. The red-ribbed ledges drip with a silent horror of blood, And Echo there, whatever is asked her, answers `Death.' <S II> For there in the ghastly pit long since a body was found, His who had given me life - O father! O God! was it well?- There yet lies the rock that fell with him when he fell. <S III> Did he fling himself down? who knows? for a vast speculation had failed, And ever he muttered and maddened, and ever wanned with despair, And out he walked when the wind like a broken worlding wailed, And the flying gold of the ruined woodlands drove through the air. <S IV> I remember the time, for the roots of my hair were stirred By a shuffled step, by a dead weight trailed, by a whispered fright, And my pulses closed their gates with a shock on my heart as I heard The shrill-edged shriek of a . . .