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In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

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
Spring
Burnish
Flower
Livelier
Thoughts
Iris
Turns
Irises
Change
Dove
Young
Lightly
Men
Fancy
Love
Changes

More quotes by Alfred Lord Tennyson

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Till last by Philip's farm I flow To join the brimming river, For men may come and men may go, But I go on for ever.
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Gorgonised me from head to foot With a stony British stare.
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And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.
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Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the world is more and more.
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Sweet is every sound, sweeter the voice, but every sound is sweet.
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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.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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I falter where I firmly trod, And falling with my weight of cares Upon the great world's altar-stairs That slope thro' darkness up to God, I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope, And gather dust and chaff, and call To what I feel is Lord of all, And faintly trust the larger hope.
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Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Ours is not to wonder why. Ours is just to do or die.
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And what delights can equal those That stir the spirit's inner deeps, When one that loves but knows not, reaps A truth from one that loves and knows?
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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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.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas.
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Evolution ever climbing after some ideal good, And Reversion ever dragging Evolution in the mud.
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The quiet sense of something lost
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curled Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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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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Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly longed for death.
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The greater man the greater courtesy.
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Life is not as idle ore, But iron dug from central gloom, And heated hot with burning fears, And dipt in baths of hissing tears, And batter'd with the shocks of doom, To shape and use.
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Attain the unattainable.
Alfred Lord Tennyson