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Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side ? Is there no baseness we would hide ? No inner vileness that we dread ? How many a father have I seen A sober man, among his boys Whose youth was full of foolish noise.

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
Still
Dead
Foolish
Many
Side
Noise
Would
Full
Indeed
Vileness
Men
Sides
Inner
Baseness
Seen
Whose
Sober
Desire
Among
Dread
Father
Youth
Hide
Stills
Boys
Near

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Woman is the lesser man.
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And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech.
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Her eyes are homes of silent prayers.
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And down I went to fetch my bride: But, Alice, you were ill at ease This dress and that by turns you tried, Too fearful that you should not please. I loved you better for your fears, I knew you could not look but well And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell.
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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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Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.
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More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.
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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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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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And every dew-drop paints a bow.
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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.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Can calm despair and wild unrest Be tenants of a single breast, Or sorrow such a changeling be?
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The city is built To music, therefore never built at all, And therefore built forever.
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Launch your vessel, And crowd your canvas, And, ere it vanishes Over the margin, After it, follow it, FollowThe Gleam.
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And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after.
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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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A sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier times.
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Yonder cloud That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a laboring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire.
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A louse in the locks of literature.
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The greater person is one of courtesy.
Alfred Lord Tennyson