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

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Fill the cup, and fill the can: Have a rouse before the morn: Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born.
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No rock so hard but that a little wave may beat admission in a thousand years.
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Willows whiten, aspens quiver, little breezes dusk and shiver, thro' the wave that runs forever by the island in the river, flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls and four gray towers, overlook a space of flowers, and the silent isle imbowers, the Lady of Shalott.
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It was my duty to have loved the highest It surely was my profit had I known: It would have been my pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it, Not Lancelot, nor another.
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But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
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He clasps the crag with crooked hands Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ringed with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.
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Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, Before a thousand peering littlenesses, In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, And blackens every blot.
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Hope Smiles from the threshold of the year to come, Whispering 'it will be happier'.
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Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hours will last.
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What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?
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The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
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And others' follies teach us not, Nor much their wisdom teaches, And most, of sterling worth, is what Our own experience preaches.
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Science moves, but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to point. ... Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widened with the process of the suns. ... Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers.
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Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.
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So dear a life your arms enfold, Whose crying is a cry for gold.
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My purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the Western stars until I die.
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All is well, tho' faith and form Be sunder'd in the night of fear.
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Arise, go forth, and conquer as of old.
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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.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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A simple maiden in her flower, Is worth a hundred coats of arms.
Alfred Lord Tennyson