Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool. — 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
Not wholly in the busy world, nor quite Beyond it, blooms the garden that I love. News from the humming city comes… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
Forgive! How many will say, forgive, and find a sort of absolution in the sound to hate a little longer! — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moans of… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
Love lieth deep; Love dwells not in lip-depths; Love laps his wings on either side the heart Absorbing all the incense of… — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
Sweet is every sound, sweeter the voice, but every sound is sweet. — Alfred Lord Tennyson Copy Share Image
And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And… — 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
