The Splendour Falls

So I've spent the last couple of evenings in the computer room because it's calm and sleepy.  Although it gives the chance for a much needed rest, the evenings are becoming increasingly boring.  In this modern age of the Internet though there is, if you know what to look for, no real thing as boredom, which I would almost consider a loss.  If you use the Internet incorrectly, which - I'll admit - I often do, then spending time on it only means sinking into a long chain of meaningless webpages as you surf the web for random, nonsensical articles and videos, like a physical extension of the brain the screen will end up showing whatever pops into your brain, whether it is the answer to the question of "how many rivers are there in the world?" or a wikipedia page explaining everything on anything. 
If, however, you use the Internet correctly then, amongst other things, it can become an extension of that wonderful activity called reading.  And reading is ALMOST always beneficial; especially if it's the reading of poetry; especially if it is one of the works of a certain Lord Tennyson.  And that is basically what I have done a lot of, and though I am ashamed to say it, this is possibly the first time I have read any of his works (other than "The Charge of the Light Brigade").  He really was an amazing poet though, the way he fits his words in with such an effortless quality about them is amazing, if you don't think so then try writing me some poetry that's on par with his within the next day.  Not going to happen.  A master craftsman and writer.  So on that note I will leave you with one of the poems that I liked in particular...

THE SPLENDOUR FALLS

The splendor falls on castle walls
And snowy summits old in story;
The long light shakes across the lakes,
And the wild cataract leaps in glory.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying
Blow, bugle; answers, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O hark, O hear! how thin and clear,
And thinner, clearer, farther going!
O sweet and far from cliff and scar
The horns of Elfland faintly blowing!
Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying;
Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

O love, they die in yon rich sky,
They faint on hill or field or river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
And grow forever and forever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying,dying