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Of old sat Freedom on the heights The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights She heard the torrents meet.

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
Feet
Shook
Heard
Heights
Freedom
Thunder
Light
Sat
Lights
Breaking
Torrents
Height
Thunders
Meet
Starry

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And sometimes through the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two.
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Our wills are ours, we know not how Our wills are ours, to make them thine.
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Jewels five-words-long, That on the stretch'd forefinger of all Time Sparkle forever.
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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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And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!
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All precious things, discover'd late, To those that seek them issue forth, For love in sequel works with fate, And draws the veil from hidden worth.
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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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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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And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.
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The happiness of a man in this life does not consist in the absence but in the mastery of his passions.
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Nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow speared by the shrike, And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey.
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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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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 many fail: the one succeeds.
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Ah, Christ, that it were possible, For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be.
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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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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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The world which credits what is done is cold to all that might have been.
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Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new.
Alfred Lord Tennyson