Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes
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I will love thee to the death, And out beyond into the dream to come.
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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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There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass.
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Love will conquer at the last.
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Any man that walks the mead In bud, or blade, or bloom, may find, According as his humors lead, A meaning suited to his mind.
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Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.
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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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That man's the best cosmopolite Who loves his native country best.
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Believe me, than in half the creeds.
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Because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.
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Nature, so far as in her lies, imitates God.
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He that wrongs a friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar ever condemned.
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The bearing and the training of a child Is woman's wisdom.
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Like glimpses of forgotten dreams.
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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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Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side ? Is there no baseness we would hide ? No inner vileness that we dread ? How many a father have I seen A sober man, among his boys Whose youth was full of foolish noise.
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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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We needs must love the highest when we see it.
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Rich in saving common-sense, And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime.
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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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A simple maiden in her flower, Is worth a hundred coats of arms.
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The old order changeth, yielding place to new, and god fulfills himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world.
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All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon; All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd To the dancers dancing in tune; Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon.
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The long mechanic pacings to and fro, The set, gray life, and apathetic end.