Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes
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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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And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds.
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I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul.
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I found Him in the shining of the stars.
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A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips.
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More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.
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Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.
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God made thee good as thou art beautiful.
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The night comes on that knows not morn, When I shall cease to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn.
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I came in haste with cursing breath, And heart of hardest steel; But when I saw thee cold in death, I felt as man should feel. For when I look upon that face, That cold, unheeding, frigid brown, Where neither rage nor fear has place, By Heaven! I cannot hate thee now!
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Behold, we know not anything; I can but trust that good shall fall At last-far off-at last, to all, And every winter change to spring.
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Thou madest man, he knows not why, he thinks he was not made to die.
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The mighty hopes that make us men.
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Love is hurt with jar and fret; Love is made a vague regret.
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The passionate heart of the poet is whirled into folly and vice.
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Earth is dry to the centre, But spring, a new comer, A spring rich and strange, Shall make the winds blow Round and round, Thro' and thro', Here and there, Till the air And the ground Shall be fill'd with life anew.
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I am half-sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott.
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Oh for someone with a heart, head and hand. Whatever they call them, what do I care, aristocrat, democrat, autocrat, just be it one that can rule and dare not lie.
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A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas.
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Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand the downward slope to death.
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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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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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Man is man, and master of his fate.
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And what delights can equal those That stir the spirit's inner deeps, When one that loves but knows not, reaps A truth from one that loves and knows?