Quotes
Quotes - Tennyson
Unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square.
Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,--
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret.
Oh death in life, the days that are no more!
Sweet is every sound,
Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet;
Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn,
The moan of doves in immemorial elms,
And murmuring of innumerable bees.
Happy he
With such a mother! faith in womankind
Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high
Comes easy to him; and tho' he trip and fall,
He shall not blind his soul with clay.
Let knowledge grow from more to more.
I held it truth, with him who sings
To one clear harp in divers tones,
That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things.
But for the unquiet heart and brain
A use in measured language lies;
The sad mechanic exercise
Like dull narcotics numbing pain.
Never morning wore
To evening, but some heart did break.
And topples round the dreary west
A looming bastion fringed with fire.
And from his ashes may be made
The violet of his native land.
I do but sing because I must,
And pipe but as the linnets sing.
The shadow cloaked from head to foot.
Who keeps the keys of all the creeds.
And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought
Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech.
'T is better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
Her eyes are homes of silent prayer.
Whose faith has centre everywhere,
Nor cares to fix itself to form.
My own dim life should teach me this
That life shall live for evermore.
Short swallow-flights of song, that dip
Their wings in tears, and skim away.
Hold thou the good; define it well;
For fear divine Philosophy
Should push beyond her mark, and be
Procuress to the Lords of Hell.
Oh yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill.
But what am I?
An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light,
And with no language but a cry.
So careful of the type she seems,
So careless of the single life.
The great world's altar-stairs,
That slope through darkness up to God.
Who battled for the True, the Just.
