“Let us hush this cry of 'Forward', till ten thousand years have gone.” — Alfred Tennyson Copy Share Image
“Let Knowledge grow from more to more; but more of reference in us dwell” — Alfred Tennyson Copy Share Image
“ The Eagle He clasps the crag with crooked hands; Close to the sun in lonely lands, Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.… — Alfred Tennyson Copy Share Image
“I sometimes hold it half a sin To put in words the grief I feel; For words, like Nature, half reveal And half conceal the Soul within. But, for the unquiet heart and brain, A use in measured language lies; The sad mechanic exercise, Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes… — Alfred Tennyson Copy Share
“May make my heart as a milestone, set my face as a flint, cheat and be cheated, and die: who knows? we are ashes… — Alfred Tennyson Copy Share Image
“But in her web she still delights To weave the mirror’s magic sights, For often thro’ the silent nights A funeral, with plumes and… — Alfred Tennyson Copy Share Image
“In her right hand the lily, in her left The letter--all her bright hair streaming down-- And all the coverlid was cloth of gold Drawn to her waist, and she herself in white All but her face, and that clear-featured face Was lovely, for she did not seem as dead, But fast asleep, and lay as though she smiled.” — Alfred Tennyson Copy Share
“I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees; all times I have enjoy’d Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those… — Alfred Tennyson Copy Share Image
“The old order changes, giving place to the new... least on good custom should corrupts the world.” — Alfred Tennyson Copy Share Image
“Half a league, half a league, Half a league onward, All in the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. "Forward the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!" he said. Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred. Forward, the Light Brigade!" Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Some one had blunder'd. Theirs not to… — Alfred Tennyson Copy Share
“Oh yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill, To pangs of nature, sins of will, Defects of doubt, and taints of blood; That nothing walks with aimless feet; That not one life shall be destroy'd, Or cast as rubbish to the void, When God hath made the pile complete; That not a worm is… — Alfred Tennyson Copy Share
“Let us hush this cry of 'Forward', till ten thousand years have gone.” — Alfred Tennyson Copy Share Image
