Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes
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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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Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.
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I cannot rest from travel; I will drink Life to the lees.
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A louse in the locks of literature.
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The many fail: the one succeeds.
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To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
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The shell must break before the bird can fly.
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Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver.
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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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Jewels five-words-long, That on the stretch'd forefinger of all Time Sparkle forever.
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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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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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The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
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Live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curled Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world.
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The white flower of a blameless life.
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Be near me when my light is low... And all the wheels of being slow.
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A truth looks freshest in the fashions of the day.
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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 down I went to fetch my bride: But, Alice, you were ill at ease; This dress and that by turns you tried, Too fearful that you should not please. I loved you better for your fears, I knew you could not look but well; And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell.
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And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!
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He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ringed with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls; He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.
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But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.
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Ring out the false, ring in the true.
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Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers.