Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes
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There lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds.
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But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
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And out of darkness came the hands that reach thro' nature, moulding men.
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Man is the hunter; women are the game; those sleek and shining creatures of the chase. We hunt them for the beauty of their skins; they love us for it, and we ride them down.
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In the long years liker they must grow; The man be more of woman, she of man.
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Nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal; The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow speared by the shrike, And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey.
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For I dipped into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.
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Every man at time of Death, Would fain set forth some saying that may live After his death and better humankind; For death gives life's last word a power to live, And, lie the stone-cut epitaph, remain After the vanished voice, and speak to men.
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And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain.
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Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hours will last.
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The quiet sense of something lost.
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By blood a king, in heart a clown.
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No man ever got very high by pulling other people down. The intelligent merchant does not knock his competitors. The sensible worker does not knock those who work with him. Don't knock your friends. Don't knock your enemies. Don't knock yourself.
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The time draws near the birth of Christ; The moon is hid; the night is still; The Christmas bells from hill to hill Answer each other in the mist.
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O love, O fire! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul through My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.
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The woman is so hard Upon the woman.
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What was once to me mere matter of the fancy now has grown the vast necessity of heart and life.
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So now I have sworn to bury All this dead body of hate I feel so free and so clear By the loss of that dead weight.
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I have led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none, And never yet so warmly ran my blood, And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wished for end, Full to the banks, close on the prom- ised good.
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I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.
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Life is not as idle ore, But iron dug from central gloom, And heated hot with burning fears, And dipt in baths of hissing tears, And batter'd with the shocks of doom, To shape and use.
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Every man, for the sake of the great blessed Mother in Heaven, and for the love of his own little mother on earth, should handle all womankind gently, and hold them in all Honor.
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And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.
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The shell must break before the bird can fly.