Quote

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.

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
Sweet
Murmuring
Sound
Hurrying
Elms
Voice
Lawn
Rivulets
Music
Innumerable
Moans
Every
Sweeter
Myriads
Lawns
Thro
Dove
Doves
Bees
Immemorial

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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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Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts Or all the same as if he had not been?
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Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers Unfaith is aught is want of faith in all.
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She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide The mirror crack'd from side to side The curse is come upon me, cried The Lady of Shalott.
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He makes no friend who never made a foe.
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The world which credits what is done is cold to all that might have been.
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And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.
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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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Love is the only gold.
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O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.
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An English homegrey twilight poured On dewy pasture, dewy trees, Softer than sleepall things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.
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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.
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Never, oh! never, nothing will die The stream flows, The wind blows, The cloud fleets, The heart beats, Nothing will die.
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And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.
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Wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower.
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So dear a life your arms enfold, Whose crying is a cry for gold.
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Name and fame! to fly sublime Through the courts, the camps, the schools Is to be the ball of Time, Bandied in the hands of fools.
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My life has crept so long on a broken wing Through cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing.
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Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born.
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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
Alfred Lord Tennyson