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All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.
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
Become
Things
Parcels
Parcel
Dreadful
Portions
Taken
Past
More quotes by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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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Nature, so far as in her lies, imitates God.
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Virtue!--to be good and just-- Every heart, when sifted well, Is a clot of warmer dust, Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell.
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The thrall in person may be free in soul
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For I dipped into the future, far as human eye could see, Saw the Vision of the world, and all the wonder that would be.
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I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.
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Let observation with extended observation observe extensively.
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Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.
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I am half-sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott.
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I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.
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Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt.
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His honour rooted in dishonour stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.
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God gives us love! Something to love He lends us but when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone: This is the curse of time.
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There has fallen a splendid tear From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear She is coming, my life, my fate The red rose cries, She is near, she is near And the white rose weeps, She is late The larkspur listens, I hear I hear And the lily whispers, I wait.
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There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun.
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Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.
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And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
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It is unconceivable that the whole Universe was merely created for us who live in this third-rate planet of a third-rate moon.
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After-dinner talk Across the walnuts and the wine.
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