Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes
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We are self-uncertain creatures, and we may Yea, even when we know not, mix our spites And private hates with our defence of Heaven.
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Shall eagles not be eagles? wrens be wrens? If all the world were falcons, what of that? The wonder of the eagle were the less, But he not less the eagle.
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My doom is, I love thee still. Let no man dream but that I love thee still.
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The parting of a husband and wife is like the cleaving of a heart; one half will flutter here, one there.
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For this is England's greatest son, He that gain'd a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.
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A beam in darkness: let it grow.
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Blind and naked ignorance delivers brawling judgments, unashamed, on all things all day long.
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The words 'far, far away' had always a strange charm.
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We are ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times.
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And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.
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O son, thou hast not true humility, The highest virtue, mother of them all; But her thou hast not know; for what is this? Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself.
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Happy he With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him; and tho' he trip and fall, He shall not blind his soul with clay.
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I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot.
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Red of the Dawn Is it turning a fainter red? so be it, but when shall we lay The ghost of the Brute that is walking and hammering us yet and be free?
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O hark,O hear! how thin and clear And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
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...and our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips.
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The city is built To music, therefore never built at all, And therefore built forever.
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Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.
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Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.
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Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.
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Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasp'd no more - Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day.
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Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.
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I am on fire within. There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my sin, And save me lest I die?
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Lady, for indeed I loved you and I deemed you beautiful, I cannot brook to see your beauty marred Through evil spite: and if ye love me not, I cannot bear to dream you so forsworn: I had liefer ye were worthy of my love, Than to be loved again of you - farewell; And though ye kill my hope, not yet my love, Vex not yourself: ye will not see me more.