Let me go: take back thy gift: Why should a man desire in any way To vary from the kindly race of… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
The wind sounds like a silver wire, And from beyond the noon a fire Is pour'd upon the hills, and nigher The… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
To love one maiden only, cleave to her, And worship her by years of noble deeds, Until they won her; for indeed… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
Come not, when I am dead, To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave, To trample round my fallen head, And vex… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side ? Is there no baseness we would hide… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
Faith and unfaith can ne'er be equal powers; Unfaith is aught is want of faith in all. — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass. — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before; Although the… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
I do but sing because I must; and pipe but as the linnets sing. — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
Here about the beach I wandered, nourishing a youth sublime With the fairy tales of science, and the long result of Time. — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
So now I have sworn to bury All this dead body of hate I feel so free and so clear By the loss of… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley. — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver. — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
If Nature put not forth her power About the opening of the flower, Who is it that could live an hour? — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
