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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
Light
Sat
Lights
Breaking
Torrents
Height
Thunders
Meet
Starry
Feet
Shook
Heard
Heights
Freedom
Thunder
More quotes by Alfred Lord Tennyson
But for the unquiet heart and brain A use in measured language lies The sad mechanic exercise Like dull narcotics numbing pain.
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The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.
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Virtue!--to be good and just-- Every heart, when sifted well, Is a clot of warmer dust, Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell.
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But while I breathe Heaven's air and Heaven looks down on me, And smiles at my best meanings, I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul.
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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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Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt.
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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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Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new.
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Nature, red in tooth and claw.
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Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark For though from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar.
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I hold it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things.
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Love lieth deep Love dwells not in lip-depths.
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That man's the true Conservative who lops the moldered branch away.
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A louse in the locks of literature.
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Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.
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What rights are those that dare not resist for them?
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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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I have led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none, And never yet so warmly ran my blood, And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wished for end, Full to the banks, close on the prom- ised good.
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What's up is faith, what's down is heresy.
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So dear a life your arms enfold, Whose crying is a cry for gold.
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