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
You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad New… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
O son, thou hast not true humility, The highest virtue, mother of them all; But her thou hast not know; for what… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
Happy he With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
Every man, for the sake of the great blessed Mother in Heaven, and for the love of his own little mother on… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
Sweet and low, sweet and low, Wind of the western sea, Low, low, breathe and blow, Wind of the western sea! Over… — 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
