Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes
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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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There lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds.
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Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.
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By blood a king, in heart a clown.
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And out of darkness came the hands that reach thro' nature, moulding men.
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The woman is so hard Upon the woman.
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A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier times.
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He that shuts love out, in turn shall be Shut out from love, and on her threshold lie, Howling in outer darkness.
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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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Sin is too stupid to see beyond itself.
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Ah, when shall all men's good Be each man's rule, and universal peace Lie like a shaft of light across the land, And like a lane of beams athwart the sea, Thro' all the circle of the golden year?
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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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Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was love.
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Too much wit makes the world rotten.
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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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Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hours will last.
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For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.
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Launch your vessel, And crowd your canvas, And, ere it vanishes Over the margin, After it, follow it, FollowThe Gleam.
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I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.
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Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster.
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Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.
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Authority forgets a dying king.
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And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.
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If Nature put not forth her power About the opening of the flower, Who is it that could live an hour?