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It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.
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
Within
Littles
Music
Lute
Ever
Rift
Little
Widening
Make
Mute
Slowly
Silence
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But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.
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Love lieth deep Love dwells not in lip-depths.
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A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair.
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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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Once in a golden hour, I cast to earth a seed, And up there grew a flower, That others called a weed.
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Man is man, and master of his fate.
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Trust me not at all, or all in all.
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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?
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Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.
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Come, my friends Tis not too late to seek a newer world Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die
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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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O last regret, regret can die!
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I am half-sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott.
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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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I am going a long way With these thou seëst-if indeed I go (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)- To the island-valley of Avilion, Where falls not hail or rain or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.
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Jewels five-words-long, That on the stretch'd forefinger of all Time Sparkle forever.
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Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.
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Such a one do I remember, whom to look at was love.
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I am on fire within. There comes no murmur of reply. What is it that will take away my sin, And save me lest I die?
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