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The woman is so hard Upon the woman.
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
Hard
Upon
Woman
Women
More quotes by Alfred Lord Tennyson
So I find every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber, and the street, For all is dark where thou art not
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But what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.
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We cannot be kind to each other here for even an hour. We whisper, and hint, and chuckle and grin at our brother's shame however you take it we men are a little breed.
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Who is this? And what is here? And in the lighted palace near Died the sound of royal cheer And they crossed themselves for fear, All the Knights at Camelot But Lancelot mused a little space He said, She has a lovely face God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.
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Evolution ever climbing after some ideal good, And Reversion ever dragging Evolution in the mud.
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The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
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The noonday quiet holds the hill.
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Manners are not idle, but the fruit of loyal and of noble mind.
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Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster.
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Beauty and anguish walking hand in hand the downward slope to death.
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The sin That neither God nor man can well forgive.
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Science grows and Beauty dwindles.
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I cannot rest from travel I will drink Life to the lees.
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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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And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.
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A still small voice spake unto me, 'Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?
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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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O hark,O hear! how thin and clear And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns of Elfland faintly blowing! Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying: Blow, bugle answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
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Nature, so far as in her lies, imitates God.
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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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