Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes
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Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hours will last.
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And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.
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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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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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Faith is believing what we cannot prove.
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That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.
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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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The world which credits what is done is cold to all that might have been.
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Better not be at all than not be noble.
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Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool.
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Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of: Wherefore, let they voice, Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
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It was my duty to have loved the highest; It surely was my profit had I known: It would have been my pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it, Not Lancelot, nor another.
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I am a part of all that I have met.
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The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself.
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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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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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And every dew-drop paints a bow.
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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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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.
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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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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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And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons, when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet.
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The white flower of a blameless life.