Tennyson’s autumnal babies

846 apples

I discovered Tennyson at a tender point in my vulnerable teenage years. I have never been able to let go of his baklava-like layer upon layer of dense Victorian word-wallowing in the other-world of “fain” and “o’er” and “thro'”. A line that sometimes comes back to me at this time of year is from “The Princess”, published in 1847, describing how “babies rolled about like tumbled fruit in grass” just like these big Bramley apples falling from our tree this week. It reminds me to go and read his poems again.


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