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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 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
Mean
Despair
Heart
Fields
Thinking
Tears
Gather
Days
Depths
Eyes
Idle
Looking
Autumn
Happy
Rise
Eye
Depth
More quotes by Alfred Lord Tennyson
I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods.
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That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.
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Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.
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The greater man the greater courtesy.
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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.
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Every man at time of Death, Would fain set forth some saying that may live After his death and better humankind For death gives life's last word a power to live, And, lie the stone-cut epitaph, remain After the vanished voice, and speak to men.
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Shall eagles not be eagles? wrens be wrens? If all the world were falcons, what of that? The wonder of the eagle were the less, But he not less the eagle.
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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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Courtesy wins woman all as well. As valor may, but he that closes both is perfect.
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God made thee good as thou art beautiful.
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Manners are not idle, but the fruit of loyal and of noble mind.
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All experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untravelled world whose margin fades for ever and for ever when I move.
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What the sunshine is to the flower, the Lord Jesus Christ is to my soul.
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For this is England's greatest son, He that gain'd a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.
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Love lieth deep Love dwells not in lip-depths Love laps his wings on either side the heart Absorbing all the incense of sweet thoughts, So that they pass not to the shrine of sound.
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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.
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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.
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Battering the gates of heaven with the storms of prayer.
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Happy days roll onward leading up to golden years.
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I know that age to age succeeds, Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, A dust of systems and of creeds.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
