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I cannot rest from travel I will drink Life to the lees.
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
Drink
Rest
Cannot
Life
Lees
Travel
More quotes by Alfred Lord Tennyson
For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.
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I can't sleep without knowing there's hope. Half the night I waste in sighs. In a wakeful doze I sorrow. For the hands, for the lips... the eyes. For the meeting of tomorrow.
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But the churchmen fain would kill their church, As the churches have kill'd their Christ.
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It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.
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Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born.
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A simple maiden in her flower, Is worth a hundred coats of arms.
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Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control these three alone lead one to sovereign power.
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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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What! I should call on that Infinite Love that has served us so well? Infinite cruelty rather, that made everlasting hell, Made us, foreknew us, foredoom'd us, and does what he will with his own Better our dead brute mother who never has heard us groan.
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As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.
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...and our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips.
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A smile abroad is often a scowl at home.
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Once in a golden hour, I cast to earth a seed, And up there grew a flower, That others called a weed.
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By blood a king, in heart a clown.
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'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
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Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than the darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.
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Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of: Wherefore, let they voice, Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
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He that shuts love out, in turn shall be Shut out from love, and on her threshold lie, Howling in outer darkness.
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Nor is he the wisest man who never proved himself a fool.
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The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself.
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