Quotes
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Oh yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;
That nothing walks with aimless feet;
That not one life shall be destroy'd,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete;
That not a worm is cloven in vain;
That not a moth with vain desire
Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another's gain.
Behold, we know not anything;
I can but trust that good shall fall
At...
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Be near me when my light is low, When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick. And tingle; and the heart is sick, And all the wheels of Being slow. Be near me when the sensuous frame. Is rack'd with pangs that conquer trust; And Time, a maniac scattering dust, And Life, a fury slinging flame. Be near me when my faith is dry, And men the flies of latter spring, That lay their eggs, and sting and sing. And weave their petty cells and die. Be near me when I fade away, To point the term of human...
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds, At last he beat his music out. There lives more faith in honest doubt, Believe me, than in half the creeds. He fought his doubts and gather'd strength, He would not make his judgment blind, He faced the spectres of the mind. And laid them: thus he came at length. To find a stronger faith his own; And Power was with him in the night, Which makes the darkness and the light, And dwells not in the light alone,
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Tis a morning pure and sweet, And a dewy splendour falls. On the little flower that clings. To the turrets and the walls;'Tis a morning pure and sweet, And the light and shadow fleet; She is walking in the meadow, And the woodland echo rings; In a moment we shall meet; She is singing in the meadow, And the rivulet at her feet. Ripples on in light and shadow. To the ballad that she sings.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror’s magic sights,
For often thro’ the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights,
And music, went to Camelot:
Or when the moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed;
“I am half-sick of shadows,” said
The Lady of Shalott.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
She sleeps: her breathings are not heard. In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd. That lie upon her charmed heart. She sleeps: on either hand upswells. The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells. A perfect form in perfect rest.
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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