Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes
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For this is England's greatest son, He that gain'd a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.
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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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But while I breathe Heaven's air and Heaven looks down on me, And smiles at my best meanings, I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul.
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Nor is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool.
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Love's arms were wreathed about the neck of Hope, And Hope kiss'd Love, and Love drew in her breath In that close kiss and drank her whisper'd tales. They said that Love would die when Hope was gone. And Love mourn'd long, and sorrow'd after Hope; At last she sought out Memory, and they trod The same old paths where Love had walked with Hope, And Memory fed the soul of Love with tears.
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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.
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I am on fire within. There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my sin, And save me lest I die?
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Tis held that sorrow makes us wise.
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Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new, That which they have done but earnest of the things which they shall do.
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I will love thee to the death, And out beyond into the dream to come.
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For love reflects the thing beloved.
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Faith lives in honest doubt.
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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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Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.
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There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
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I loved you, and my love had no return, And therefore my true love has been my death.
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And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after.
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To me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth.
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If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance.
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The old order changes yielding place to new.
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Virtue must shape itself in deed.
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There is always change, bad customs pass and give way to better ones.
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Come not, when I am dead, To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, To trample round my fallen head, And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save. There let the wind sweep and the plover cry; But thou, go by. Child, if it were thine error or thy crime I care no longer, being all unblest; Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time, And I desire to rest. Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie: Go by, go by.
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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.