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The night comes on that knows not morn, When I shall cease to be all alone, To live forgotten, and love forlorn.

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
Love
Cease
Forgotten
Shall
Alone
Comes
Death
Night
Morn
Live
Forlorn

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Man is the hunter women are the game those sleek and shining creatures of the chase. We hunt them for the beauty of their skins they love us for it, and we ride them down.
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Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers Unfaith is aught is want of faith in all.
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Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove.
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Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.
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Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.
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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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Life is not as idle ore, But iron dug from central gloom, And heated hot with burning fears, And dipt in baths of hissing tears, And batter'd with the shocks of doom, To shape and use.
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I wind about, and in and out, - With here a blossom sailing, - And here and there a lusty trout, - And here and there a grayling.
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Forgive! How many will say, forgive, and find a sort of absolution in the sound to hate a little longer!
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By blood a king, in heart a clown.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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A smile abroad is often a scowl at home.
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My life has crept so long on a broken wing Through cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing.
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All experience is an arch wherethro' gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever as we move.
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Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depths of some devine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.
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I can't be anonymous by reason of your confounded photographs. (To Julia Margaret Cameron)
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Speak to Him, thou, for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet- Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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the shell must break before the bird can fly.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Shall it not be scorn to me to harp on such a moulder'd string? I am shamed through all my nature to have lov'd so slight a thing.
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A life of nothing's nothing worth, From that first nothing ere his birth, To that last nothing under earth.
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That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break.
Alfred Lord Tennyson