Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes
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Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new.
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And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.
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We are ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times.
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The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.
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Nor is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool.
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Evolution ever climbing after some ideal good, And Reversion ever dragging Evolution in the mud.
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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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Virtue must shape itself in deed.
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Not once or twice in our rough island story, The path of duty was the way to glory.
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A life of nothing's nothing worth, From that first nothing ere his birth, To that last nothing under earth.
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Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace; Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, While the stars burn, the moons increase, And the great ages onward roll. Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep full of rest from head to feet; Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.
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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.
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Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.
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In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
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There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass.
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But while I breathe Heaven's air and Heaven looks down on me, And smiles at my best meanings, I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul.
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Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.
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I loved you, and my love had no return, And therefore my true love has been my death.
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She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd That lie upon her charmed heart She sleeps: on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest.
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Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.
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Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than the darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.
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How fares it with the happy dead?
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Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to towered Camelot.
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There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.