Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes
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I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul.
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Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than the darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.
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You, methinks you think you love me well; For me, I love you somewhat; rest: and Love Should have some rest and pleasure in himself, Not ever be too curious for a boon, Too prurient for a proof against the grain Of him ye say ye love: but Fame with men, Being but ampler means to serve mankind, Should have small rest or pleasure in herself, But work as vassal to the larger love, That dwarfs the petty love of one to one.
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And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.
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Who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation's final law Though Nature, red in tooth and claw With ravine, shrieked against his creed.
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We love but while we may; And therefore is my love so large for thee, Seeing it is not bounded save by love.
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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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Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.
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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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A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas.
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Nothing in Nature is unbeautiful.
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Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.
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I am any man's suitor, If any will be my tutor: Some say this life is pleasant, Some think it speedeth fast, In time there is no present, In eternity no future, In eternity no past. We laugh, we cry, we are born, we die. Who will riddle me the how and the why?
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He that wrongs his friend, wrongs himself more.
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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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Of old sat Freedom on the heights The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights; She heard the torrents meet.
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It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.
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Man is man, and master of his fate.
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The mighty hopes that make us men.
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He is all fault who has no fault at all.
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The wind sounds like a silver wire, And from beyond the noon a fire Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher The skies stoop down in their desire; And, isled in sudden seas of light, My heart, pierced thro' with fierce delight, Bursts into blossom in his sight.
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Attain the unattainable.
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Love will conquer at the last.
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Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.