Quotes from Alfred Lord Tennyson

Come into the garden, Maud,For the black bat, night, has flown,Come into the garden, Maud,I am here at the gate alone.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,Ring, happy bells, across the snow:The year is going, let him go;Ring out the false, ring in the true.

I will drinkLife to the lees.

The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to months,The months will add themselves and make the years,The years will roll into the centuries,And mine will ever be a name of scorn.

He said likewiseThat a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies,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.

The happiness of a man in this life does not consist in the absence but in the mastery of his passions.

More things are wrought by prayerThan this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voiceRise like a fountain for me night and day.

Dosn't thou 'ear my 'erse's legs, as they canters awaäy?Proputty, proputty, proputty—that's what I 'ears 'em saäy.

All the charm of all the Muses often flowering in a lonely word.

She left the web, she left the loom,She made three paces thro' 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," criedThe Lady of Shalott.

Much have I seen and known; cities of menAnd manners, climates, councils, governments,Myself not least, but honor'd of them all;And drunk delight of battle with my peers,Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.I am a part of all that I have met;Yet all experience is an arch wherethroughGleams that untravel'd world.

In after-dinner talk,Across the walnuts and the wine.

The horns of Elfland faintly blowing.

The splendor falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story:The long light shakes across the lakes,And the wild cataract leaps in glory.Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

If I had a flower for every time I thought of you, I could walk in my garden forever.

From the great deep to the great deep he goes.

But, friend, to meHe is all fault who hath no fault at all.For who loves me must have a touch of earth.

Twilight and evening bell,And after that the dark.

Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.

Words, like nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.

Sweet and low, sweet and low,Wind of the western sea,Low, low, breathe and blow,Wind of the western sea!Over the rolling waters go,Come from the dying moon, and blow,Blow him again to me;While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

This is my son, mine own Telemachus.

The city is built To music, therefore never built at all, And therefore built forever.

The worst is yet to come.