Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

FROM SORROW SORROW YET IS BORN by ALFRED TENNYSON

Poet Analysis

Last Line: Touch some gray ruin on the hill
Subject(s): HOPE;
From sorrow sorrow yet is born,
Hopes flow like water through a sieve,
But leave not thou thy son forlorn;
Touch me, great Nature, make me live.
As when thy sunlights, a mild heat,
Touch some dun mere that sleepeth still;
As when thy moonlights, dim and sweet,
Touch some gray ruin on the hill.



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