Quote

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peaceSleep, holy spirit, blessed soul,While the stars burn, the moons increase,And the great ages onward roll. Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet. Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep full of rest from head to feetLie still, dry dust, secure of change.

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
Heart
True
Head
Increase
Burn
Ends
Sleep
Moon
Ages
Stills
Stars
Sweet
Roll
Change
Age
Holy
Till
Moons
Still
Lying
Rest
Dust
Sweetly
Soul
Peace
Strange
Secure
Onward
Nothing
Comes
Feet
Thee
Tender
Great
Spirit
Full
Blessed
Dry

More quotes by Alfred Lord Tennyson

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But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
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If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever.
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And every dew-drop paints a bow.
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But thy strong Hours indignant work’d their wills, And beat me down and marr’d and wasted me, And tho’ they could not end me, left me maim’d To dwell in presence of immortal youth, Immortal age beside immortal youth, And all I was, in ashes. - Tithonus
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The quiet sense of something lost
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How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise.
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O hark,O hear! how thin and clear And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
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All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd To the dancers dancing in tune Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon.
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For love reflects the thing beloved.
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Oh that it were possible, After long grief and pain, To find the arms of my true love, Around me once again
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I am half-sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott.
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I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.
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And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons, when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet.
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But for the unquiet heart and brain A use in measured language lies The sad mechanic exercise Like dull narcotics numbing pain.
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It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round.
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Nothing in Nature is unbeautiful.
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Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made those eyes Darker than the darkest pansies, and that hair More black than ashbuds in the front of March.
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We are ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times.
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We cannot be kind to each other here for even an hour. We whisper, and hint, and chuckle and grin at our brother's shame however you take it we men are a little breed.
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We needs must love the highest when we see it.
Alfred Lord Tennyson