Alfred Lord Tennyson

Blind and naked ignorance delivers brawling judgments, unashamed, on all things all day long

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, for those that were here we see no more.

That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.

Jewels five-words-long, That on the stretch'd forefinger of all Time Sparkle forever.

Any man that walks the mead_x000D_ _x000D_ In bud, or blade, or bloom, may find,_x000D_ _x000D_ According as his humors lead,_x000D_ _x000D_ A meaning suited to his mind.

That man's the true Conservative who lops the moldered branch away.

Come into the garden, Maud, For the black bat, night, has flown Come into the garden, Maud, I am here at the gate alone: And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad, And the musk of the rose is blown. For a breeze of morning moves, And the planet of Love is on high, Beginning to faint in the light that she loves On a bed of daffodil sky.

Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts; Or all the same as if he had not been?

Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.

To me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth.

In the afternoon they came unto a land_x000D_ _x000D_ In which it seemed always afternoon._x000D_ _x000D_ All round the coast the languid air did swoon,_x000D_ _x000D_ Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.

Because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.

But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she follow'd him.

Ah, why Should life all labour be?

The long mechanic pacings to and fro, The set, gray life, and apathetic end.

. . . More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day. For what are men better than sheeps or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Not only for themselves but for those who call them friend? For so this whole round earth is every way Bound by gold chains about the feet of God.

Into the valley of Death Rode the six hundred.

That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.

The many fail: the one succeeds.