Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes
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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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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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And the days darken round me, and the years, Among new men, strange faces, other minds.
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Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand the downward slope to death.
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Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to point. ... Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns. ... Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers.
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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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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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And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.
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Is there evil but on earth? Or pain in every peopled sphere? Well, be grateful for the sounding watchword "Evolution" here.
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Man is man, and master of his fate.
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Love is hurt with jar and fret; Love is made a vague regret.
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Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.
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He that wrongs his friend, wrongs himself more.
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Many a night I saw the Pleiads, Rising thro' the mellow shade, Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies, Tangled in a silver braid.
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In time there is no present, In eternity no future, In eternity no past.
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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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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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The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before; Although the loss had brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more.
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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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Sweet is every sound, sweeter the voice, but every sound is sweet.
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You may tell me that my hand and foot are only imaginary symbols of my existence. I could believe you, but you never, never can convince me that the I is not an eternal reality, and that the spiritual is not the true and real part of me.
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Short swallow-flights of song, that dip Their wings in tears, and skim away.
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So dear a life your arms enfold, Whose crying is a cry for gold.
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As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.