Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes

Happy days roll onward leading up to golden years.

Virtue!
to be good and just
Every heart, when sifted well, Is a clot of warmer dust, Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell.

And every dew-drop paints a bow.

Hope smiles from the threshold of the year to come, whispering, 'It will be happier.'

O last regret, regret can die!

Yet is there one true line, the pearl of pearls:
Man dreams of Fame while woman wakes to love.

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

Mastering the lawless science of our law,- that codeless myriad of precedent, that wilderness of single instances.

And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain.

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 what delights can equal those That stir the spirit's inner deeps, When one that loves but knows not, reaps A truth from one that loves and knows?

Sin is too stupid to see beyond itself.

As the husband is, the wife is.

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

Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster.

Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers;
Unfaith is aught is want of faith in all.

Nothing in Nature is unbeautiful.

The mirror crack'd from side to side "The curse has come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott

There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun.

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

The happiness of a man in this life does not consist in the absence but in the mastery of his passions.

Tho' much is taken, much abides;

Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.

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.

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

Let observation with extended observation observe extensively.

God and Nature met in light.

Twilight and evening bell, and after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell when I embark.

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea, But never a moment ceased the fight of the one and the fifty-three.

Ah, Christ, that it were possible, For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be.

A truth looks freshest in the fashions of the day.

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.

Too much wit makes the world rotten.

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

O earth, what changes hast thou seen!

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.

Men at most differ as Heaven and Earth, but women, worst and best, as Heaven and Hell.

If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance.

How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise.

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold

The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.

That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break.

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

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?

On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God, Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption.

What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?

Old men must die, or the world would grow mouldy, would only breed the past again.

Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool.

Things seen are mightier than things heard.

When you meet triumph or disaster, treat these imposters alike.

All Life needs for life is possible to will.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

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.

The long mechanic pacings to and fro, The set, gray life, and apathetic end.

Arise, go forth, and conquer as of old.

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

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.

I know transplanted human worth will bloom to profit otherwhere.

Ours is not to wonder why. Ours is just to do or die.

A pasty costly-made, Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and injellied.

Forgive! How many will say, forgive, and find a sort of absolution in the sound to hate a little longer!

Ah! well away! Seasons flower and fade.

Launch your vessel, And crowd your canvas, And, ere it vanishes Over the margin, After it, follow it, FollowThe Gleam.

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

That man's the true Conservative who lops the moldered branch away.

Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts; Or all the same as if he had not been?

All experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untravelled world whose margin fades for ever and for ever when I move.

It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

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.

Believe me, than in half the creeds.

We love but while we may;
And therefore is my love so large for thee,
Seeing it is not bounded save by love.

Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?

Love's too precious to be lost,
A little grain shall not be spilt.

Speak to Him, thou, for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet- Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.

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

A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas.

Once in a golden hour, I cast to earth a seed, And up there grew a flower, That others called a weed.

Many a night I saw the Pleiads,
Rising thro' the mellow shade,
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies,
Tangled in a silver braid.

O love, O fire! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul through My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

Forgive my grief for one removed Thy creature whom I found so fair I trust he lives in Thee and there I find him worthier to be loved.

There is always change, bad customs pass and give way to better ones.

And others' follies teach us not,
Nor much their wisdom teaches,
And most, of sterling worth, is what
Our own experience preaches.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.

Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers 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 same words conceal and declare the thoughts of men.

From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.

And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech.

A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair.

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

Either sex alone is half itself.

The bearing and the training of a child Is woman's wisdom.

The world which credits what is done is cold to all that might have been.

Till last by Philip's farm I flow
To join the brimming river,
For men may come and men may go,
But I go on for ever.

I will love thee to the death,
And out beyond into the dream to come.

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.

One so small Who knowing nothing knows but to obey.

Thou madest man, he knows not why, he thinks he was not made to die.

The city is built To music, therefore never built at all, And therefore built forever.