Alfred Tennyson
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light;The year is dying in the night;Ring out, wild bells, and let him die. 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 truth.
— Alfred Tennyson
So runs my dream, but what am I? An infant crying in the night An infant crying for the light And with no language but a cry.
— Alfred Tennyson
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depths of some Devine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.
— Alfred Tennyson
That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more:Too common! Never morning Loreto evening, but some heart did break.
— Alfred Tennyson
The happiness of a man in this life does not consist in the absence but on the mastery of his passions.
— Alfred Tennyson
Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.
— Alfred Tennyson
Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die
— Alfred Tennyson
The quiet sense of something lost
— Alfred Tennyson
There has fallen a splendid therefrom the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear;She is coming, my life, my fate. The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"And the lily whispers, "I wait." She is coming, my own, my sweet;Where it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed;My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead, Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.
— Alfred Tennyson
There lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds.
— Alfred Tennyson
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