Quotes from Alfred Lord Tennyson

It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass.

Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moans of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.

God and Nature met in light.

Nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal; The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow speared by the shrike, And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey.

I sometimes find it half a sin, To put to words the grief i feel, For words like nature,half reveal, and half conceal the soul within.

Manners are not idle, but the fruit of loyal and of noble mind.

And out of darkness came the hands that reach through nature, moulding men.

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

Ah, when shall all men's good Be each man's rule, and universal peace Lie like a shaft of light across the land, And like a lane of beams athwart the sea, Thro' all the circle of the golden year?

And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control; these three alone lead one to sovereign power.

If Nature put not forth her power About the opening of the flower, Who is it that could live an hour?

Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.

God made thee good as thou art beautiful.

Nature, so far as in her lies, imitates God.

The old order changeth, yielding place to new, and god fulfills himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

She has a lovely face; God in his mercy lend her grace, The Lady of Shalott.

On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God, Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption.

Virtue!--to be good and just-- Every heart, when sifted well, Is a clot of warmer dust, Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell.

Oh yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill!

Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.