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What! I should call on that Infinite Love that has served us so well? Infinite cruelty rather, that made everlasting hell, Made us, foreknew us, foredoom'd us, and does what he will with his own Better our dead brute mother who never has heard us groan.

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
Mother
Cruelty
Doe
Atheism
Better
Infinite
Wells
Dead
Groan
Well
Hell
Brute
Made
Heard
Brutes
Never
Call
Everlasting
Love
Rather
Served

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Thou madest man, he knows not why, he thinks he was not made to die.
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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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What rights are those that dare not resist for them?
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Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, oh sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.
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After-dinner talk Across the walnuts and the wine.
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O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies, O skilled to sing of Time or Eternity, God-gifted organ-voice of England, Milton, a name to resound for ages.
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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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Lady, for indeed I loved you and I deemed you beautiful, I cannot brook to see your beauty marred Through evil spite: and if ye love me not, I cannot bear to dream you so forsworn: I had liefer ye were worthy of my love, Than to be loved again of you - farewell And though ye kill my hope, not yet my love, Vex not yourself: ye will not see me more.
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Jewels five-words-long, That on the stretch'd forefinger of all Time Sparkle forever.
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Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to towered Camelot.
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A doubtful throne is ice on summer seas.
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And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.
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Yet is there one true line, the pearl of pearls: Man dreams of Fame while woman wakes to love.
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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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She is coming, my own, my sweet Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthly bed My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.
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The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.
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Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.
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The song that nerves a nation's heart is in itself a deed.
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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 a part of all that I have met.
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