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Nor at all can tell Whether I mean this day to end myself, Or lend an ear to Plato where he says, That men like soldiers may not quit the post Allotted by the Gods.

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
Says
Soldiers
Whether
Post
Tell
Posts
Ends
Quit
May
Quitting
Mean
Gods
Allotted
Men
Soldier
Lend
Like
Ears
Plato

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What are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
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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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Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born.
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Blind and naked ignorance delivers brawling judgments, unashamed, on all things all day long
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From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.
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There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass.
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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.
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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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Better not be at all than not be noble.
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That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.
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'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
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Here at the quiet limit of the world.
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The last great Englishman is low.
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Happy days roll onward leading up to golden years.
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Behold, we know not anything I can but trust that good shall fall At last-far off-at last, to all, And every winter change to spring.
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Some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs.
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Ah, Christ, that it were possible, For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be.
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A smile abroad is often a scowl at home.
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The long day wanes the slow moon climbs the deep.
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