Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever. — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
Only reapers, reaping early In among the bearded barley, Hear a song that echoes cheerly From the river winding clearly, Down to… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
O Love! they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
O hark,O hear! how thin and clear And thinner, clearer, farther going! O sweet and far from cliff and scar The horns… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
Tis a morning pure and sweet, And a dewy splendour falls On the little flower that clings To the turrets and the… — 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
