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But the churchmen fain would kill their church, As the churches have kill'd their Christ.
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
Christ
Would
Churchmen
Fain
Churches
Atheism
Kill
Church
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O last regret, regret can die!
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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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That man's the best cosmopolite Who loves his native country best.
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I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.
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The year is dying in the night.
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O love, O fire! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul through My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.
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I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair.
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Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.
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The woman's cause is man's: they rise or sink Together.
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I cannot rest from travel I will drink Life to the lees.
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I am half-sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott.
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In time there is no present, In eternity no future, In eternity no past.
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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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For this is England's greatest son, He that gain'd a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.
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Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of: Wherefore, let they voice, Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
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There twice a day the Severn fills The salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills.
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Woman is the lesser man, and all thy passions, match'd with mine, Are as moonlight unto sunlight, and as water unto wine.
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O son, thou hast not true humility, The highest virtue, mother of them all But her thou hast not know for what is this? Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself.
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As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.
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Our little systems have their day They have their day and cease to be… And thou, O Lord, art more than they.
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