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On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God, Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption.
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
Finger
Half
Somewhat
Good
Corruption
Things
Fairs
Fair
Effaced
Fingers
Blotted
God
Signature
Created
Signatures
More quotes by Alfred Lord Tennyson
To me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth.
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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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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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The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.
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The last great Englishman is low.
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Sweet is true love, though given in vain.
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The white flower of a blameless life.
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What are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend?
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.
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I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair.
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Nature, red in tooth and claw.
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But the churchmen fain would kill their church, As the churches have kill'd their Christ.
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Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
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A classic lecture, rich in sentiment, With scraps of thundrous Epic lilted out By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies And quoted odes, and jewels five-words-long, That on the stretched forefinger of all Time Sparkle for ever.
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Here at the quiet limit of the world.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Ah! well away! Seasons flower and fade.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Once in a golden hour, I cast to earth a seed, And up there grew a flower, That others called a weed.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round.
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A beam in darkness: let it grow.
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Who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation's final law Though Nature, red in tooth and claw With ravine, shrieked against his creed.
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