Alfred Lord Tennyson
Alfred Lord Tennyson
Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron Tennyson, FRSwas Poet Laureate of Great Britain and Ireland during much of Queen Victoria's reign and remains one of the most popular British poets...
NationalityEnglish
ProfessionPoet
Date of Birth6 August 1809
past eternity
In time there is no present, In eternity no future, In eternity no past.
grace come-back-to-me
But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
night purple world
And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she follow'd him.
dream dog hunts
Like a dog, he hunts in dreams.
love morning moving
Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone: And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown. For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky.
summer lying fall
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.
lying fighting may
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.
lying
Nature, so far as in her lies, imitates God.
dog horse passion
He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.
dream land breathing
In the afternoon they came unto a land In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
gratitude taken skyfall
Tho' much is taken, much abides;
life should labour
Ah, why Should life all labour be?
lying winter years
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.
happiness may achilles
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.