Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes
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Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.
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Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to towered Camelot.
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How fares it with the happy dead?
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And on her lover's arm she leant, And round her waist she felt it fold, And far across the hills they went In that new world which is the old.
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Sweet is true love that is given in vain, and sweet is death that takes away pain.
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A simple maiden in her flower, Is worth a hundred coats of arms.
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Like glimpses of forgotten dreams.
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And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears!
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Nor is it wiser to weep a true occasion lost, but trim our sails, and let old bygones be.
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There is always change, bad customs pass and give way to better ones.
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Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.
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And every winter change to spring.She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd That lie upon her charmed heart She sleeps: on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest.
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I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope thro' darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope.
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Faith lives in honest doubt.
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My life has crept so long on a broken wing Through cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing.
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I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot.
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Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depths of some devine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.
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And was the day of my delight As pure and perfect as I say?
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The year is dying in the night.
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There she weaves by night and day, A magic web with colors gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay, To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott.
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The words 'far, far away' had always a strange charm.
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Believe me, than in half the creeds.
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The sin That neither God nor man can well forgive.
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Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the world is more and more.