Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes
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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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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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To me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth.
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Trust me not at all, or all in all.
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A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas.
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The mighty hopes that make us men.
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Arise, go forth, and conquer as of old.
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God made thee good as thou art beautiful.
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This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim.
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The long mechanic pacings to and fro, The set, gray life, and apathetic end.
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I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul.
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Love is hurt with jar and fret; Love is made a vague regret.
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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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All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.
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Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.
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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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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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Here at the quiet limit of the world.
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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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Love lieth deep; Love dwells not in lip – depths; Love laps his wings on either side the heart Absorbing all the incense of sweet thoughts, So that they pass not to the shrine of sound.
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And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds.
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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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Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. News from the humming city comes to it It sound of funeral or of marriage bells.
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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.