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

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Love lieth deep Love dwells not in lip-depths Love laps his wings on either side the heart Absorbing all the incense of sweet thoughts, So that they pass not to the shrine of sound.
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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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Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly longed for death.
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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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Happy days roll onward leading up to golden years.
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I know transplanted human worth will bloom to profit otherwhere.
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He makes no friend who never made a foe.
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The same words conceal and declare the thoughts of men.
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Nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow speared by the shrike, And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey.
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Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.
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My strength is as the strength of ten, because my heart is pure.
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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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Come, Time, and teach me many years, I do not suffer in dream For now so strange do these things seem, Mine eyes have leisure for their tears.
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Those who depend on the merits of their ancestors may be said to search in the roots of the tree for those fruits which the branches ought to produce.
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For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.
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The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
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Sweet is true love that is given in vain, and sweet is death that takes away pain.
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The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul of a man, And the man said, Am I your debtor? And the Lord--Not yet: but make it as clean as you can, And then I will let you a better.
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Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light, The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow, Drops in a silent autumn night. All its allotted length of days The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.
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I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone.
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