Holy! Holy! Lord of hosts!
Holy! Holy! The great Prophet and Messiah!"
By a carriage at the street corner, having just witnessed this impactful scene, Tennyson couldn't help but be moved to tears. It was only then that he understood the meaning behind the words Arthur had once said to him.
—I'd rather you not become a great poet, for the heavenly poems have all been written by priests, so poets can only depict Hell.
And now, here, this was his Hell.
Overwhelming emotions filled Tennyson's mind. The inspiration he had long sought for over the past year without any response now resonated fervently at this moment.
Tennyson felt countless repressed emotions accumulating in his chest, as if they could tear him apart and plunge him into the deepest abyss of pain at any moment.
"Many worlds, many deeds,
Chasing the wind in this life, predestined,
How do I know it is not the other worlds that need you?
For you are strong, as you are pure.
The fame I foresaw for you has vanished,
