Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes
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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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Faith lives in honest doubt.
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There is always change, bad customs pass and give way to better ones.
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Like glimpses of forgotten dreams.
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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 men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.
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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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How fares it with the happy dead?
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If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance.
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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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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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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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Ring out the grief that saps the mind, for those that were here we see no more.
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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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And was the day of my delight As pure and perfect as I say?
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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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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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Happy he With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him; and tho' he trip and fall, He shall not blind his soul with clay.
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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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Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts; Or all the same as if he had not been?
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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.
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A simple maiden in her flower, Is worth a hundred coats of arms.
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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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And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears!