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He that shuts love out, in turn shall be Shut out from love, and on her threshold lie, Howling in outer darkness.
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
Sadness
Darkness
Turn
Howling
Shall
Shuts
Lying
Sad
Turns
Threshold
Love
Outer
Shut
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Man is the hunter women are the game those sleek and shining creatures of the chase. We hunt them for the beauty of their skins they love us for it, and we ride them down.
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Silence, beautiful voice.
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More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.
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Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
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Happy days roll onward leading up to golden years.
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Trust me not at all, or all in all.
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O Love! what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine!
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What's up is faith, what's down is heresy.
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Virtue must shape itself in deed.
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Oh for someone with a heart, head and hand. Whatever they call them, what do I care, aristocrat, democrat, autocrat, just be it one that can rule and dare not lie.
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Bible reading is an education in itself.
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Arise, go forth, and conquer as of old.
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Oh good gray head which all men knew!
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Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go Ring out the false, ring in the true.
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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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As love, if love be perfect, casts out fear, so hate, if hate be perfect, casts out fear.
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But what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.
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O Love! they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying! And answer, echoes, answer! dying, dying, dying.
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The night comes on that knows not morn, When I shall cease to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn.
Alfred Lord Tennyson