Quote

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remembered to have been Joyful and free from blame.

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
Blame
Violets
Green
Violet
Empty
Pour
Free
Frame
Times
Joyful
Back
Hidden
Soul
Remembered
Smell

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Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd On lips that are for others deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret O Death in Life, the days that are no more!
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By shaping some august decree, Which kept her throne unshaken still, Broad-based upon her people's will, And compass'd by the inviolate sea.
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If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance.
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To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
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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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For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry.
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I am any man's suitor, If any will be my tutor: Some say this life is pleasant, Some think it speedeth fast, In time there is no present, In eternity no future, In eternity no past. We laugh, we cry, we are born, we die. Who will riddle me the how and the why?
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How many a father have I seen, A sober man, among his boys, Whose youth was full of foolish noise.
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The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear.
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Theirs is not to make reply: Theirs is not to reason why: Theirs is but to do and die.
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In the Spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove In the Spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.
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She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room
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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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Thou madest man, he knows not why, he thinks he was not made to die.
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The woman's cause is man's: they rise or sink Together.
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Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers.
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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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A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips.
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Faith is believing what we cannot prove.
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All experience is an arch wherethro' gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever as we move.
Alfred Lord Tennyson