Alfred Lord Tennyson Quotes

Sweet is true love, though given in vain.

The noonday quiet holds the hill.

I cannot rest from travel; I will drink Life to the lees.

Be near me when my light is low... And all the wheels of being slow.

Man's word is God in 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.

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

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.

He is all fault who has no fault at all.

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: This is the curse of time.

Love lieth deep; Love dwells not in lip-depths.

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.

As the husband is, the wife is.

Her court was pure, her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed.

Manners are not idle, but the fruit of loyal and of noble mind.

Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hours will last.

Follow the deer? Follow the Christ the King. Live pure, speak true,right wrong, Follow the King-- Else, wherefore born?

Thoroughly to believe in one's own self, so one's self were thorough, were to do great things.

How fares it with the happy dead?

I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair.

O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.

Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls.

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

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.

This truth within thy mind rehearse, That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse.

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

A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies.

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

A day may sink or save a realm.

Things seen are mightier than things heard.

O son, thou hast not true humility, The highest virtue, mother of them all; But her thou hast not know; for what is this? Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself.

Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone: And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown. For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky.

Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May.

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

A life of nothing's nothing worth, From that first nothing ere his birth, To that last nothing under earth.

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

Here at the quiet limit of the world.

And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

We are all a part of every person we have ever met.

The quiet sense of something lost

Trust me not at all, or all in all.

Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

And was the day of my delight As pure and perfect as I say?

He that shuts love out, in turn shall be Shut out from love, and on her threshold lie, Howling in outer darkness.

This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim.

Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasp'd no more - Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day.

And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.

I am half-sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott.