Maud: a monodrama
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 | 2018-06-14 |
dc.date.accessioned | 2019-07-04T10:30:55Z |
dc.date.available | 2019-07-04T10:30:55Z |
dc.date.created | 1855 |
dc.date.issued | 1992-03-12 |
dc.identifier | ota:3030 |
dc.identifier.citation | http://purl.ox.ac.uk/ota/3030 |
dc.identifier.uri | http://hdl.handle.net/20.500.12024/3030 |
dc.description.abstract | 3 vols. |
dc.format.medium | Digital bitstream |
dc.format.mimetype | text/xml |
dc.language | English |
dc.language.iso | eng |
dc.publisher | University of Oxford |
dc.relation.ispartof | Oxford Text Archive Core Collection |
dc.relation.replaces | http://purl.ox.ac.uk/ota/1643 |
dc.rights | Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License |
dc.rights.uri | http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/ |
dc.rights.label | PUB |
dc.subject.lcsh | English poetry -- 19th century |
dc.title | Maud: a monodrama |
dc.type | Text |
has.files | yes |
branding | Oxford Text Archive |
files.size | 609206 |
files.count | 5 |
otaterms.date.range | 1800-1899 |
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Part 1
Section 1
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.'
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.
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.
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 mother divide the shuddering night.
Villainy somewhere! whose? One says, we are villains . . .

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