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Shall love be blamed for want of faith?

Alfred Lord Tennyson

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Alfred Lord Tennyson
Age: 83 †
Born: 1809
Born: August 6
Died: 1892
Died: October 6
Poet
Politician
Writer
Somersby
Lincolnshire
Alfred Tennyson
1st Baron Tennyson
Lord Alfred Tennyson
Alcibiades
A. Tennyson
Alfred Tennyson
Baron Tennyson
Alfred Tennyson Tennyson
Tennyson
1st Baron Tennyson of Aldworth and Freshwater Alfred Tennyson
Alfred Tennyson d'Eyncourt
Lord Tennyson Alfred
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Alfred
Lord Tennyson
Blamed
Shall
Faith
Love

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Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers Unfaith is aught is want of faith in all.
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Either sex alone is half itself.
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And sometimes through the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two.
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That man's the true Conservative who lops the moldered branch away.
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For I dipped into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.
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The mighty hopes that make us men.
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Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark For though from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar.
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Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.
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O love, O fire! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul through My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.
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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.
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For love reflects the thing beloved.
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Thou madest man, he knows not why, he thinks he was not made to die.
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Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.
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I have led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none, And never yet so warmly ran my blood, And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wished for end, Full to the banks, close on the prom- ised good.
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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.
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He that wrongs his friend, wrongs himself more.
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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.
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Man is the hunter women are the game those sleek and shining creatures of the chase. We hunt them for the beauty of their skins they love us for it, and we ride them down.
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Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades Forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life!
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