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Flower in the crannied wall, I pluck you out of the crannies, I hold you here, root and all, in my hand, Little flower-but if I could understand What you are, root and all, all in all, I should know what God and man is.

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
Little
Flower
Crannies
Men
Wall
Pansies
Hold
Pluck
Hand
Springtime
Understand
April
Nature
Root
Hands
Roots
Littles
Spring

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Like a dog, he hunts in dreams.
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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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Through the ages one increasing purpose runs.
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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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I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair.
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I do but sing because I must and pipe but as the linnets sing.
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Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.
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Earth is dry to the centre, But spring, a new comer, A spring rich and strange, Shall make the winds blow Round and round, Thro' and thro', Here and there, Till the air And the ground Shall be fill'd with life anew.
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But the churchmen fain would kill their church, As the churches have kill'd their Christ.
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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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Because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.
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Our wills are ours, we know not how Our wills are ours, to make them thine.
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Lady, for indeed I loved you and I deemed you beautiful, I cannot brook to see your beauty marred Through evil spite: and if ye love me not, I cannot bear to dream you so forsworn: I had liefer ye were worthy of my love, Than to be loved again of you - farewell And though ye kill my hope, not yet my love, Vex not yourself: ye will not see me more.
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Better not to be at all Than not to be noble.
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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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An English homegrey twilight poured On dewy pasture, dewy trees, Softer than sleepall things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.
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I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.
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There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear She is coming, my life, my fate The red rose cries, She is near, she is near And the white rose weeps, She is late The larkspur listens, I hear I hear And the lily whispers, I wait.
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Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. News from the humming city comes to it It sound of funeral or of marriage bells.
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I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul
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