The Spiteful Letter / Lord Alfred Tennyson

Here, it is here, the close of the year,

And with it a spiteful letter.

My name in song has done him much wrong,

For himself has done much better

O little bard, is your lot so hard,

If men neglect your pages?

I think not much of yours or of mine,

I hear the roll of the ages.

Rhymes and rhymes in the range of the times!

Are mine for the moment stronger?

Yet hate me not, but abide your lot,

I last but a moment longer.

This faded leaf, our names are as brief;

What room is left for a hater?

Yet the yellow leaf hates the greener leaf,

For it hangs one moment later.

Greater than I -is that your cry?

And men will live to see it.

Well -if it be so -so it is, you know;

And if it be so, so be it.

Brief, brief is a summer leaf,

But this is the time of hollies.

O hollies and ivies and evergreens,

How I hate the spites and the follies!