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

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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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Faith lives in honest doubt.
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For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry.
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For this alone on Death I wreak The wrath that garners in my heart: He put our lives so far apart We cannot hear each other speak.
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We are all a part of every person we have ever met.
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A louse in the locks of literature.
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The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world.
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What's up is faith, what's down is heresy.
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Behold, we know not anything I can but trust that good shall fall At last-far off-at last, to all, And every winter change to spring.
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All Life needs for life is possible to will.
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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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She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw the helmet and the plume, She look'd down to Camelot. Out flew the web and floated wide The mirror crack'd from side to side The curse is come upon me, cried The Lady of Shalott.
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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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That which we are, we are.
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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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It is hard to wive and thrive both in a year.
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If Nature put not forth her power About the opening of the flower, Who is it that could live an hour?
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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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The passionate heart of the poet is whirled into folly and vice.
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