Quotes
Quotes - Tennyson
This laurel greener from the brows
Of him that uttered nothing base.
And statesmen at her council met
Who knew the seasons, when to take
Occasion by the hand, and make
The bounds of freedom wider yet.
Broad based upon her people's will,
And compassed by the inviolate sea.
For it was in the golden prime
Of good Haroun Alraschid.
Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,
The love of love.
A still small voice spake unto me,
"Thou art so full of misery,
Were it not better not to be?"
This truth within thy mind rehearse,
That in a boundless universe
Is boundless better, boundless worse.
Tho' thou wert scattered to the wind,
Yet is there plenty of the kind.
No life that breathes with human breath
Has ever truly longed for death.
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams.
Across the walnuts and the wine.
Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control,--
These three alone lead life to sovereign power.
Because right is right, to follow right
Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.
I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house,
Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.
Her manners had not that repose
Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.
From yon blue heaven above us bent,
The grand old gardener and his wife
Smile at the claims of long descent.
Howe'er it be, it seems to me,
'T is only noble to be good.
Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.
You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear;
To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad New Year,--
Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest, merriest day;
For I 'm to be Queen o' the May, mother, I 'm to be queen o' the May.
Ah, why
Should life all labour be?
A daughter of the gods, divinely tall,
And most divinely fair.
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.
Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace!
Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul,
While the stars burn, the moons increase,
And the great ages onward roll.
Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet!
Nothing comes to thee new or strange.
Sleep full of rest from head to feet;
Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.
More black than ash-buds in the front of March.
Of love that never found his earthly close,
What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts;
Or all the same as if he had not been?
