In Sommersby of Lincolnshire,
On sixth of August, in the year
Of eighteen O nine, there appear'd,
To be in history rever'd,
A gift to poetry's bouquet.
To English middle-class was born
The future Baron Tennyson,
Who was to flower, and become
The poet Laureate.

From only twelve, a word conjurer;
An exemplary classic tale narrator;
Who wrote verse O so popular;
In literary circles caused a stir;
Became Victoria's favourite.
Refused his baronetcy twice -
The reason why, I have no advice -
Perhaps the simple life sufficed
The poet Laureate.

Exposed, in youth, to grief and loss,
Caused many works to count the cost -
and most did share a strong pathos
Of death's calamitous chaos -
No explanation adequate.
And plagued by fear of insanity,
And thoughts of what demise may be,
His poems probed mortality,
The poet Laureate.

Despite depression's great ordeal
His writings to most all appeals
and he's still read with the greatest zeal.
The cream, to this mind, I'll reveal -
'Tis The Lady of Shallot.
In ninety-two he returned to the whole.
Perhaps, with end, achieved his goal.
He delved to find the way of soul,
The poet Laureate.
.