Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes
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A simple maiden in her flower, Is worth a hundred coats of arms.
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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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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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Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly longed for death.
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The thrall in person may be free in soul.
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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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And was the day of my delight As pure and perfect as I say?
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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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Nature, so far as in her lies, imitates God.
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The words 'far, far away' had always a strange charm.
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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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Bible reading is an education in itself.
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Our little systems have their day; They have their day and cease to be… And thou, O Lord, art more than they.
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This barren verbiage, current among men, Light coin, the tinsel clink of compliment.
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Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone: And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown. For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky.
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Rich in saving common-sense, And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime.
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That man's the best cosmopolite Who loves his native country best.
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God and Nature met in light.
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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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Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.
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The sin That neither God nor man can well forgive.
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He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.
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Willows whiten, aspens quiver, little breezes dusk and shiver, thro' the wave that runs forever by the island in the river, flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls and four gray towers, overlook a space of flowers, and the silent isle imbowers, the Lady of Shalott.
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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.