Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes
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Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool.
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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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Better not be at all than not be noble.
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Things seen are mightier than things heard.
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I am a part of all that I have met.
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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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The world which credits what is done is cold to all that might have been.
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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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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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Yet is there one true line, the pearl of pearls: Man dreams of Fame while woman wakes to love.
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Nor at all can tell Whether I mean this day to end myself, Or lend an ear to Plato where he says, That men like soldiers may not quit the post Allotted by the Gods.
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That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.
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Tis a morning pure and sweet, And a dewy splendour falls On the little flower that clings To the turrets and the walls; 'Tis a morning pure and sweet, And the light and shadow fleet; She is walking in the meadow, And the woodland echo rings; In a moment we shall meet; She is singing in the meadow, And the rivulet at her feet Ripples on in light and shadow To the ballad that she sings.
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Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall rail Against her beauty? May she mix With men and prosper! Who shall fix Her pillars? Let her work prevail.
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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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That man's the true Conservative who lops the moldered branch away.
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Faith is believing what we cannot prove.
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Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, Before a thousand peering littlenesses, In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, And blackens every blot.
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I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.
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Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver.
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O Love! what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine; In lands of palm, of orange – blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine!
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And every dew-drop paints a bow.
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A louse in the locks of literature.
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O Love! they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying! And answer, echoes, answer! dying, dying, dying.