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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.

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
Side
Depths
Either
Depth
Laps
Sides
Lips
Shrine
Sound
Wings
Shrines
Heart
Pass
Incense
Love
Sweet
Dwells
Thoughts
Lap
Deep
Absorbing

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God gives us love! Something to love He lends us but when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone: This is the curse of time.
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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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A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies.
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Nature, so far as in her lies, imitates God.
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Gorgonised me from head to foot With a stony British stare.
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Twilight and evening bell, and after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell when I embark.
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Ring out the grief that saps the mind, for those that were here we see no more.
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The woods decay, the woods decay and fall.
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Full knee-deep lies the winter snow, And the winter winds are wearily sighing: Toll ye the church bell sad and slow, And tread softly and speak low, For the old year lies a-dying. Old year you must not die You came to us so readily, You lived with us so steadily, Old year you shall not die.
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But the churchmen fain would kill their church, As the churches have kill'd their Christ.
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If I had a flower for every time I thought of you...I could walk through my garden forever.
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Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.
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It is unconceivable that the whole Universe was merely created for us who live in this third-rate planet of a third-rate moon.
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Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born.
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She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room
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But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
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The golden guess is morning-star to the full round of truth.
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That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.
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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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Too much wit makes the world rotten.
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