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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
Dies
Withered
Though
Hateful
Evil
Cheeks
Salient
Children
Hanging
Loath
Kind
Cells
Hourly
Mind
Blood
Propagate
Good
Shall
Brood
Child
Diseased
More quotes by Alfred Lord Tennyson
And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she follow'd him.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
The last great Englishman is low.
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The world which credits what is done is cold to all that might have been.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.
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Oh for someone with a heart, head and hand. Whatever they call them, what do I care, aristocrat, democrat, autocrat, just be it one that can rule and dare not lie.
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Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the world is more and more.
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It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.
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And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears!
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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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Sweet is every sound, sweeter the voice, but every sound is sweet.
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The woods decay, the woods decay and fall.
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And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.
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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 grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men.
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So now I have sworn to bury All this dead body of hate I feel so free and so clear By the loss of that dead weight
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A truth looks freshest in the fashions of the day.
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Love is hurt with jar and fret Love is made a vague regret.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Battering the gates of heaven with the storms of prayer.
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There lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds.
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Red of the Dawn Is it turning a fainter red? so be it, but when shall we lay The ghost of the Brute that is walking and hammering us yet and be free?
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