Alfred, Lord Tennyson - Night Quotes

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There is sweet music here that softer falls
Than petals from blown roses on the grass,
Or night-dews on still waters between walls
Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass;
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies,
Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Many a night from yonder ivied casement, ere I went to rest, Did I look on great Orion, sloping slowly to the west.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
All night, through archways of the bridged pearl And portals of pure silver, walks the moon.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Must my day be dark by reason, O ye Heavens, of your boundless nights, Rush of Suns, and roll of systems, and your fiery clash of meteorites?

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Dead sounds at night come from the inmost hills. Like footsteps upon wool.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
A still salt pool, locked in with bars of sand, Left on the shore; that hears all night The plunging seas draw backward from the land Their moon-led waters white.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Many a night I saw the Pleiads,
Rising thro' the mellow shade,
Glitter like a swarm of fire-flies,
Tangled in a silver braid.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
When the face of night is fair on the dewy downs, And the shining daffodil dies...

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
The night comes on that knows not morn,
When I shall cease to be all alone,
To live forgotten, and love forlorn.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
All is well, tho' faith and form
Be sunder'd in the night of fear.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
The night with sudden odour reeled;
The southern stars a music pealed.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
The time draws near the birth of Christ;
The moon is hid; the night is still;
The Christmas bells from hill to hill
Answer each other in the mist.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune;
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Half the night I waste in sighs, Half in dreams I sorrow after The delight of early skies; In a wakeful dose I sorrow For the hand, the lips, the eyes, For the meeting of the morrow, The delight of happy laughter, The delight of low replies.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Gone - flitted away, Taken the stars from the night and the sun From the day! Gone, and a cloud in my heart.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right —
The leaves upon her falling light —
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott. Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
She sees the Best that glimmers thro' the Worst,
She feels the Sun is hid but for a night,
She spies the summer thro' the winter bud,
She tastes the fruit before the blossom falls,
She hears the lark within the songless egg,
She finds the fountain where they wail'd 'Mirage'!

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
And o'er the hills and far away
Beyond their utmost purple rim,
Beyond the night, across the day,
Through all the world she followed him.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
He often lying broad awake, and yet
Remaining from the body, and apart
In intellect and power and will, hath heard
Time flowing in the middle of the night,
And all things creeping to a day of doom.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
His deeds yet live, the worst is yet to come.
Yet let your sleep for this one night be sound:
I do forgive him!

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
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.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
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.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
All night has the casement jessamine stirred
To the dancers dancing in tune;
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice Rise like a fountain for me night and day.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
The slow sweet hours that bring us all things good,
The slow sad hours that bring us all things ill,
And all good things from evil, brought the night
In which we sat together and alone,
And to the want, that hollow'd all the heart,
Gave utterance by the yearning of an eye,
That burn'd upon its object thro' such tears
As flow but once a life. The trance gave way
To those caresses, when a hundred times
In that last kiss, which never was the last,
Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Lo! sweeten'd with the summer light,
The full-juiced apple, waxing over-mellow,
Drops in a silent autumn night.
All its allotted length of days
The flower ripens in its place,
Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil,
Fast-rooted in the fruitful soil.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
The great brand
Made lightnings in the splendor of the moon,
And flashing round and round, and whirled in an arch,
Shot like a streamer of the northern morn,
Seen where the moving isles of winter shock By night, with noises of the northern sea,
So flashed and fell the brand Excalibur.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
First pledge our Queen this solemn night,
Then drink to England, every guest;
That man's the best Cosmopolite
Who loves his native country best.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson
But what am I?
An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson