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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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Battering the gates of heaven with the storms of prayer.
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Is there evil but on earth? Or pain in every peopled sphere? Well, be grateful for the sounding watchword Evolution here.
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Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.
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Thoroughly to believe in one's own self, so one's self were thorough, were to do great things.
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Men may come and men may go but I go on forever.
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Love lieth deep Love dwells not in lip-depths.
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The woman's cause is man's: they rise or sink Together.
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The long day wanes the slow moon climbs the deep.
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Wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower.
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I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods.
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Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side ? Is there no baseness we would hide ? No inner vileness that we dread ? How many a father have I seen A sober man, among his boys Whose youth was full of foolish noise.
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The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself.
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O last regret, regret can die!
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I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men.
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To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
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Here about the beach I wandered, nourishing a youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time.
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Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.
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'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
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Through the ages one increasing purpose runs.
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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
