Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remembered to have been Joyful and free from blame.

Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land; Ring in the Christ that is to be.

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.

Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

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

Shall love be blamed for want of faith?

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

Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over the rolling waters go, Come from the dying moon, and blow, Blow him again to me; While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps. Sleep and rest, sleep and rest, Father will come to thee soon; Rest, rest, on mother's breast, Father will come to thee soon; Father will come to his babe in the nest, Silver sails all out of the west Under the silver moon: Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt.

Oh good gray head which all men knew!

Nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal; The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow speared by the shrike, And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey.

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams.

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

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world.

The year is dying in the night.

Oh that it were possible, After long grief and pain, To find the arms of my true love, Around me once again

Can calm despair and wild unrest Be tenants of a single breast, Or sorrow such a changeling be?

If Nature put not forth her power About the opening of the flower, Who is it that could live an hour?

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

There rolls the deep where grew the tree. O earth, what changes hast thou seen! There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands; They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go.

Authority forgets a dying king.

Theirs is not to make reply: Theirs is not to reason why: Theirs is but to do and die.

Faith lives in honest doubt.

A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips.

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.

O Love! they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying! And answer, echoes, answer! dying, dying, dying.

You may tell me that my hand and foot are only imaginary symbols of my existence. I could believe you, but you never, never can convince me that the I is not an eternal reality, and that the spiritual is not the true and real part of me.

More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.

That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.

Every man, for the sake of the great blessed Mother in Heaven, and for the love of his own little mother on earth, should handle all womankind gently, and hold them in all Honor.

And every dew-drop paints a bow.

if you don't concentrate on what you are doing then the thing that you are doing is not what you are thinking.

O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies, O skilled to sing of Time or Eternity, God-gifted organ-voice of England, Milton, a name to resound for ages.

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

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, for those that were here we see no more.

A still small voice spake unto me, 'Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?

I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.

Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand the downward slope to death.

I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods: I envy not the beast that takes His license in the field of time, Unfetter’d by the sense of crime, To whom a conscience never wakes; Nor, what may count itself as blest, The heart that never plighted troth But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; Nor any want-begotten rest. I hold it true, whate’er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; ‘Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.

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.

Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.

He that wrongs a friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar ever condemned.

I can't sleep without knowing there's hope. Half the night I waste in sighs. In a wakeful doze I sorrow. For the hands, for the lips... the eyes. For the meeting of tomorrow.

Oh yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill!

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.

God and Nature met in light.

There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun.

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