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The jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels.

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
Jingling
Guinea
Corruption
Helps
Honor
Hurt
Helping
Feels

More quotes by Alfred Lord Tennyson

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What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?
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The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind Hath fouled me.
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Tho' much is taken, much abides.
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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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Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.
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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.
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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.
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Every man, for the sake of the great blessed Mother in Heaven, and for the love of his own little mother on earth, should handle all womankind gently, and hold them in all Honor.
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Cricket, however, has more in it than mere efficiency. There is something called the spirit of cricket, which cannot be defined.
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So I find every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber, and the street, For all is dark where thou art not
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Ah, when shall all men's good Be each man's rule, and universal peace Lie like a shaft of light across the land, And like a lane of beams athwart the sea, Thro' all the circle of the golden year?
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Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool.
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There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun.
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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.
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Fill the cup, and fill the can: Have a rouse before the morn: Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born.
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This truth within thy mind rehearse, That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse.
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By shaping some august decree, Which kept her throne unshaken still, Broad-based upon her people's will, And compass'd by the inviolate sea.
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Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, Before a thousand peering littlenesses, In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, And blackens every blot.
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Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moans of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.
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And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she follow'd him.
Alfred Lord Tennyson