Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes
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Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.
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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 so the Word had breath, and wrought With human hands the creed of creeds In loveliness of perfect deeds, More strong than all poetic thoughts; Which he may read that binds the sheaf, Or builds the house, or digs the grave, And those wild eyes that watch the waves In roarings round the coral reef.
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The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul of a man, And the man said, "Am I your debtor?" And the Lord--"Not yet: but make it as clean as you can, And then I will let you a better.
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If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance.
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I know that age to age succeeds, Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, A dust of systems and of creeds.
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The bearing and the training of a child Is woman's wisdom.
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Faith lives in honest doubt.
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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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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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The words 'far, far away' had always a strange charm.
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Red of the Dawn Is it turning a fainter red? so be it, but when shall we lay The ghost of the Brute that is walking and hammering us yet and be free?
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The sin That neither God nor man can well forgive.
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Nor is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool.
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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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The last great Englishman is low.
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And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after.
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Like glimpses of forgotten dreams.
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And was the day of my delight As pure and perfect as I say?
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A simple maiden in her flower, Is worth a hundred coats of arms.
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France had shown a light to all men, preached a Gospel, all men's good; Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek'd and slaked the light with blood.
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But for the unquiet heart and brain A use in measured language lies; The sad mechanic exercise Like dull narcotics numbing pain.
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Shall eagles not be eagles? wrens be wrens? If all the world were falcons, what of that? The wonder of the eagle were the less, But he not less the eagle.
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The year is dying in the night.