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Can calm despair and wild unrest Be tenants of a single breast, Or sorrow such a changeling be?
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
Calm
Despair
Changeling
Sorrow
Changelings
Single
Tenants
Unrest
Breast
Breasts
Wild
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So sad, so fresh the days that are no more.
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There lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds.
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Follow the deer? Follow the Christ the King. Live pure, speak true,right wrong, Follow the King-- Else, wherefore born?
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Silence, beautiful voice.
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He makes no friend who never made a foe.
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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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I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot.
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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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As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.
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I am going a long way With these thou seëst-if indeed I go (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)- To the island-valley of Avilion, Where falls not hail or rain or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.
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The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.
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As love, if love be perfect, casts out fear, so hate, if hate be perfect, casts out fear.
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Guard your roving thoughts with a jealous care, for speech is but the dialer of thoughts, and every fool can plainly read in your words what is the hour of your thoughts.
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An English homegrey twilight poured On dewy pasture, dewy trees, Softer than sleepall things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.
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Ah, Christ, that it were possible, For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be.
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The noonday quiet holds the hill.
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One so small Who knowing nothing knows but to obey.
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Our little systems have their day They have their day and cease to be… And thou, O Lord, art more than they.
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