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And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
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
Knowledge
Gray
Desire
Bound
Spirit
Bounds
Thought
Star
Human
Follow
Ulysses
Humans
Poetry
Utmost
Like
Beyond
Sinking
Stars
Yearning
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A lie that is half-truth is the darkest of all lies.
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Red of the Dawn Is it turning a fainter red? so be it, but when shall we lay The ghost of the Brute that is walking and hammering us yet and be free?
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The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul of a man, And the man said, Am I your debtor? And the Lord--Not yet: but make it as clean as you can, And then I will let you a better.
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The thrall in person may be free in soul
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On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God, Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption.
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And every dew-drop paints a bow.
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With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.
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Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.
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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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What the sunshine is to the flower, the Lord Jesus Christ is to my soul.
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If Nature put not forth her power About the opening of the flower, Who is it that could live an hour?
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That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.
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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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What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?
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Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moans of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.
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The mighty hopes that make us men.
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After-dinner talk Across the walnuts and the wine.
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I will be deafer than the blue-eyed cat, And thrice as blind as any noonday owl, To holy virgins in their ecstasies.
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God's finger touched him, and he slept.
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Forgive my grief for one removed Thy creature whom I found so fair I trust he lives in Thee and there I find him worthier to be loved.
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