Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes
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As the husband is the wife is; thou art mated with a clown, As the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.
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And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.
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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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Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar When I put out to sea.
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I am going a long way With these thou seëst-if indeed I go (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)- To the island-valley of Avilion, Where falls not hail or rain or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.
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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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Thoroughly to believe in one's own self, so one's self were thorough, were to do great things.
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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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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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Sweet is true love that is given in vain, and sweet is death that takes away pain.
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Virtue must shape itself in deed.
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And on her lover's arm she leant, And round her waist she felt it fold, And far across the hills they went In that new world which is the old.
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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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There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass.
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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.
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Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new.
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How fares it with the happy dead?
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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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Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.
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We are ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times.
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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 always change, bad customs pass and give way to better ones.