She Is Coming, My Own, My Sweet


She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed,
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead,
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.


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Return to the Alfred Lord Tennyson Home Page, or . . . Read the next poem; Show-Day At Battle Abbey, 1876

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