Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes
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And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.
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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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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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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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But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
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Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.
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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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For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.
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That man's the true Conservative who lops the moldered branch away.
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The white flower of a blameless life.
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God gives us love! Something to love He lends us; but when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone: This is the curse of time.
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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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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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Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was love.
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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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Yet is there one true line, the pearl of pearls: Man dreams of Fame while woman wakes to love.
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All experience is an arch wherethro' gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever as we move.
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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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She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.
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The shell must break before the bird can fly.
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The world which credits what is done is cold to all that might have been.
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Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. Old year you must not die; You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily, Old year you shall not die.
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Too much wit makes the world rotten.
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Science grows and Beauty dwindles.