Quotes
Quotes - Tennyson
And grasps the skirts of happy chance, And breasts the blows of circumstance.
Ours not to reason why Ours but to do and die.
And ye talk together still, In the language wherewith Spring Letters cowslips on the hill.
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.
As the many-winter'd crow that leads the clanging rookery home.
Then the face of night is fair in the dewy downs And the shining daffodil dies.
And out of darkness came the hands That reach thro' nature, moulding men.
And out of darkness came the hands that reach thro' nature, moulding men.
God's finger touched him, and he slept.
It becomes no man to nurse despair, but, in the teeth of clenched antagonisms, to follow up the worthiest till he die.
And every dew-drop paints a bow.
There lives more faith in honest doubt, Believe me, than in half the creeds.
And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.
Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?
Not once or twice in our rough island story, The path of duty was the way to glory.
He clasps the crag with hooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands. The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls: He watches from his mountain walls, And like a thunderbolt he falls.
Shall eagles not be eagles? wrens be wrens? If all the world were falcons, what of that? The wonder of the eagle were the less, But he not less the eagle.
I heard . . . . . . the great echo flap And buffet round the hills from bluff to bluff.
And a million horrible bellowing echoes broke From the red-ribb'd hollow behind the wood, And thunder'd up into Heaven.
Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.
What would it profit thee to be the first Of echoes, tho thy tongue should live forever, A thing that answers, but hath not a thought As lasting but as senseless as a stone.
In time there is no present, In eternity no future, In eternity no past.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices.
The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul of a man, And the man said, "Am I your debtor?" And the Lord--"Not yet: but make it as clean as you can, And then I will let you a better."
Is there evil but on earth? Or pain in every people sphere? Well, be grateful for the sounding watchword "Evolution" here.
