Alfred, Lord Tennyson Quotes

It is unconceivable that the whole Universe was merely created for us who live in this third-rate planet of a third-rate moon.

Name and fame! to fly sublime Through the courts, the camps, the schools Is to be the ball of Time, Bandied in the hands of fools.

In the long years liker they must grow; The man be more of woman, she of man.

For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry.

And ah for a man to arise in me, That the man I am may cease to be!

Man's word is God in man.

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!

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?

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.

Ah, why Should life all labour be?

And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she follow'd him.

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.

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

Those who depend on the merits of their ancestors may be said to search in the roots of the tree for those fruits which the branches ought to produce.

She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.

Some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs.

The passionate heart of the poet is whirled into folly and vice.

So I find every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber, and the street, For all is dark where thou art not

Our wills are ours, we know not how; Our wills are ours, to make them thine.

The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear.

There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun.

Shall love be blamed for want of faith?

The noonday quiet holds the hill.

I know transplanted human worth will bloom to profit otherwhere.

France had shown a light to all men, preached a Gospel, all men's good; Celtic Demos rose a Demon, shriek'd and slaked the light with blood.

The last great Englishman is low.

Gorgonised me from head to foot With a stony British stare.

I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race.

An English homegrey twilight poured On dewy pasture, dewy trees, Softer than sleepall things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.

The year is dying in the night.

I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat, And thrice as blind as any noonday owl, To holy virgins in their ecstasies.

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.

What's up is faith, what's down is heresy.

O last regret, regret can die!

There twice a day the Severn fills; The salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills.

Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove.

But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.

I do but sing because I must; and pipe but as the linnets sing.

God gives us love. Something to love He lends us; but when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone.

She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.

Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.

Come, Time, and teach me many years, I do not suffer in dream; For now so strange do these things seem, Mine eyes have leisure for their tears.

The song that nerves a nation's heart is in itself a deed.

With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

Love is hurt with jar and fret; Love is made a vague regret.

Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string? I am shamed through all my nature to have lov'd so slight a thing.

Where love could walk with banish'd Hope no more.