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.

Each year when summer heat abates
and frost turns forests red and gold
I know a familiar friend awaits,
a white haired guy who's beyond old.

He often joins me in some task,
like feeding cows or cutting wood,
he's there regardless if I ask.
Sometimes we walk the woods and brood.

Or we might sit before a warm hearth fire
and talk about the simple life,
the peace which all just men desire,
the precious love of a good wife.

original

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea
The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape
With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;
But O too fond, when have I answer'd thee?
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollowed cheek or faded eye:
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more.