Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes
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Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt, And cling to faith beyond the forms of faith; She reels not at the storm of warring words; She brightens at the clash of "Yes" and "No"; She sees the best that glimmers through the worst; She feels the sun is hid for the night; She spies the summer through the winter bud; She tastes the fruit before the blossom falls; She hears the lark within the songless egg; She finds the fountain where they wailed "Mirage!"
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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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She is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthly bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.
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Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was love.
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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?
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The world which credits what is done is cold to all that might have been.
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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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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 waited for the train at Coventry; I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge, To watch the three tall spires; and there I shaped The city's ancient legend into this.
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Too much wit makes the world rotten.
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I am a part of all that I have met.
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I can't sleep without knowing there's hope. Half the night I waste in sighs. In a wakeful doze I sorrow. For the hands, for the lips... the eyes. For the meeting of tomorrow.
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The white flower of a blameless life.
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Here about the beach I wandered, nourishing a youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time.
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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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Better not be at all than not be noble.
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Faith is believing what we cannot prove.
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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 every dew-drop paints a bow.
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Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool.
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Yet is there one true line, the pearl of pearls: Man dreams of Fame while woman wakes to love.
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The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself.
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That man's the true Conservative who lops the moldered branch away.
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The shell must break before the bird can fly.