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The collection / 343 fragments

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Culture labels and country attributions follow the source collections; earliest origins may be unknown.

343 results · Page 12 of 15Play this collection ▷
01c. 1850 AD
Wrinkled ostler, grim and thin! Here is custom come your way; Take my brute, and lead him in, Stuff his ribs with mouldy hay.... I am old, but let me drink; Bring me spices, bring me wine; I remember, when I think, That my youth was half divine.... Fill the cup, and fill the can: Have a rouse before the morn: Every moment dies a man, Every moment one is born.... Chant me now some wicked stave, Till thy drooping courage rise, And the glow-worm of the grave Glimmer in thy rheumy eyes.... Change, reverting to the years, When thy nerves could understand What there is in loving tears, And the warmth of hand in hand.... Fill the can, and fill the cup: All the windy days of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again.
Alfred Tennyson / quote
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02c. 1850 AD
For one fair Vision ever fled Down the waste waters day and night, And still we follow where she led, In hope to gain upon her flight. Her face was evermore unseen, And fixt upon the far sea-line; But each man murmured, “O my Queen, I follow till I make thee mine!” And now we lost her, now she gleamed Like Fancy made of golden air. Now nearer to the prow she seemed Like Virtue firm, like Knowledge fair, Now high on waves that idly burst Like Heavenly Hope she crowned the sea, And now, the bloodless point reversed, She bore the blade of Liberty.
Alfred Tennyson / quote
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06c. 1850 AD
Why are we weigh’d upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, While all things else have rest from weariness? All things have rest: why should we toil alone, We only toil, who are the first of things, And make perpetual moan, Still from one sorrow to another thrown: Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber’s holy balm; Nor harken what the inner spirit sings, “There is no joy but calm!” Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things?... Hateful is the dark-blue sky, Vaulted o’er the dark-blue sea. Death is the end of life; ah, why Should life all labour be? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, And in a little while our lips are dumb. Let us alone. What is it that will last? All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful Past. Let us alone. What pleasure can we have To war with evil? Is there any peace In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence; ripen, fall and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
Alfred Tennyson / quote
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11c. 1850 AD
Sweet after showers, ambrosial air, That rollest from the gorgeous gloom Of evening, over brake, and bloom, And meadow, slowly breathing bare The round of space, and rapt below Through all the dewy-tassell’d wood, And shadowing down the horned flood In ripples, fan my brows and blow The fever from my cheek, and sigh The full new life that feeds thy breath Throughout my frame, till doubt and death, Ill brethren, let the fancy fly From belt to belt of crimson seas On leagues of odour streaming far, To where in yonder orient star A hundred spirits whisper “Peace.”
Alfred Tennyson / quote
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13c. 1850 AD
Who loves not knowledge? who shall rail Against her beauty? May she mix With men and prosper! Who shall fix Her pillars? Let her work prevail. But on her forehead sits a fire; She sets her forward countenance, And leaps into the future chance, Submitting all things to desire. Half-grown as yet, a child, and vain, She cannot fight the fear of death. What is she, cut from love and faith, But some wild Pallas from the brain Of Demons? fiery hot to burst All barriers in her onward race For power. Let her know her place, She is the second, not the first. A higher hand must make her mild, If all be not in vain; and guide Her footsteps moving side by side With wisdom, like the younger child. For she is earthly of the mind, But wisdom heavenly of the soul. O friend, who earnest to thy goal So early, leaving me behind, I would the great world grew like thee, Who grewest not alone in power And knowledge, but from hour to hour In reverence and in charity.
Alfred Tennyson / quote
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15c. 1850 AD
For woman is not undevelopt man, But diverse: could we make her as the man, Sweet love were slain, whose dearest bond is this Not like to like, but like in difference: Yet in the long years liker must they grow; The man be more of woman, she of man; He gain in sweetness and in moral height, Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world; She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care: More as the double-natured Poet, each: Till at the last she set herself to man, Like perfect music unto noble words; And so these twain upon the skirts of Time, Sit side by side, full-summ’d in all their powers, Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be, Self-reverent each, and reverencing each, Distinct in individualities, But like each other ev’n as those we love. Then comes the statelier Eden back to men, Then reign the world’s great bridals, chaste and calm; Then springs the crowning race of humankind!
Alfred Tennyson / quote
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