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Half the night I waste in sighs, Half in dreams I sorrow after The delight of early skies In a wakeful dose I sorrow For the hand, the lips, the eyes, For the meeting of the morrow, The delight of happy laughter, The delight of low replies.

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
Eye
Sorrow
Sigh
Night
Waste
Meeting
Hands
Early
Meetings
Wakeful
Dream
Dreams
Lows
Replies
Hand
Delight
Sighs
Eyes
Lips
Dose
Half
Sky
Morrow
Happy
Laughter
Skies

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So sad, so fresh the days that are no more.
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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.
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He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.
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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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Life is not as idle ore, But iron dug from central gloom, And heated hot with burning fears, And dipt in baths of hissing tears, And batter'd with the shocks of doom, To shape and use.
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There twice a day the Severn fills The salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills.
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The mighty hopes that make us men.
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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.
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We are self-uncertain creatures, and we may Yea, even when we know not, mix our spites And private hates with our defence of Heaven.
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Tis held that sorrow makes us wise.
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Love will conquer at the last.
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And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain.
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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.
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All Life needs for life is possible to will.
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But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.
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For always roaming with a hungry heart.
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So I find every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber, and the street, For all is dark where thou art not
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Not once or twice in our rough island story, The path of duty was the way to glory.
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Oh yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill!
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Who is this? And what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer And they crossed themselves for fear, All the Knights at Camelot But Lancelot mused a little space He said, She has a lovely face God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.
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