The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before;… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
Thou madest man, he knows not why, he thinks he was not made to die. — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
What! I should call on that Infinite Love that has served us so well? Infinite cruelty rather, that made everlasting hell, Made… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
Though much is taken, much abides; and though We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven,… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
A pasty costly-made, Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and injellied. — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room, She saw the water-lily bloom, She saw… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
Tis not your work, but Love's. Love, unperceived, A more ideal Artist he than all, Came, drew your pencil from you, made… — 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
