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 | 2019-07-04T09:52:49Z |
| dc.date.available | 2019-07-04T09:52:49Z |
| dc.date.created | 1855 |
| dc.date.issued | 1987-12-17 |
| dc.identifier | ota:1196 |
| dc.identifier.citation | http://purl.ox.ac.uk/ota/1196 |
| dc.identifier.uri | http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12024/1196 |
| 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 |
| files.size | 58399 |
| files.count | 2 |
| 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 . . .
