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Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.

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
Self
Chord
Love
Trembling
Life
Chords
Passed
Sight
Took
Smote
Music
Harp
Might
Harps

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Sweet is every sound, sweeter the voice, but every sound is sweet.
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For I dipped into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.
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God's finger touched him, and he slept.
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All experience is an arch wherethrough gleams that untravelled world whose margin fades for ever and for ever when I move.
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It's better to have tried and failed than to live life wondering what would've happened if I had tried
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We love but while we may And therefore is my love so large for thee, Seeing it is not bounded save by love.
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There she weaves by night and day, A magic web with colors gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay, To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott.
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The greater person is one of courtesy.
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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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Willows whiten, aspens quiver, little breezes dusk and shiver, thro' the wave that runs forever by the island in the river, flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls and four gray towers, overlook a space of flowers, and the silent isle imbowers, the Lady of Shalott.
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Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.
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He that wrongs a friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar ever condemned.
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Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to towered Camelot.
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Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool.
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In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold
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Guard your roving thoughts with a jealous care, for speech is but the dialer of thoughts, and every fool can plainly read in your words what is the hour of your thoughts.
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It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.
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And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears!
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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.
Alfred Lord Tennyson