Quote

Shall the hag Evil die with the child of Good, Or propagate again her loathèd kind, Thronging the cells of the diseased mind, Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered brood, Though hourly pastured on the salient blood?

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
Mind
Blood
Propagate
Good
Shall
Brood
Child
Diseased
Dies
Withered
Though
Hateful
Evil
Cheeks
Salient
Children
Hanging
Loath
Kind
Cells
Hourly

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There is always change, bad customs pass and give way to better ones.
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Every man at time of Death, Would fain set forth some saying that may live After his death and better humankind For death gives life's last word a power to live, And, lie the stone-cut epitaph, remain After the vanished voice, and speak to men.
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'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
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Is there evil but on earth? Or pain in every peopled sphere? Well, be grateful for the sounding watchword Evolution here.
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Sweet is every sound, sweeter the voice, but every sound is sweet.
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And others' follies teach us not, Nor much their wisdom teaches, And most, of sterling worth, is what Our own experience preaches.
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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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For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.
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I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair.
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If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever.
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She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.
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But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.
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There's no glory like those who save their country.
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The noonday quiet holds the hill.
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The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before Although the loss had brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more.
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The many fail: the one succeeds.
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All experience is an arch wherethro' gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever as we move.
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I the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.
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Life is brief but love is LONG .
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Cricket, however, has more in it than mere efficiency. There is something called the spirit of cricket, which cannot be defined.
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