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Algebra reverses the relative importance of the factors in ordinary language. It is essentially a written language, and it endeavors to exemplify in its written structures the patterns which it is its purpose to convey. The pattern of the marks on paper is a particular instance of the pattern to be conveyed to thought. The algebraic method is our best approach to the expression of necessity, by reason of its reduction of accident to the ghostlike character of the real variable.

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The long mechanic pacings to and fro, The set, gray life, and apathetic end.
Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron Tennyson

Quote Author: Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron Tennyson

Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron Tennyson

Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron Tennyson

Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron Tennyson (6 August 1809 - 6 October 1892) was Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom and is one of the most popular English poets.

Much of his verse was based on classical mythological themes, although In Memoriam was written to commemorate his best friend Arthur Hallam, a fellow poet and classmate at Trinity College, Cambridge, who was engaged to Tennyson's sister, but died from a cerebral hæmorrhage before they were married. One of Tennyson's most famous works is Idylls of the King (1885), a series of narrative poems based entirely on King Arthur and the Arthurian tales, as thematically suggested by Sir Thomas Malory's earlier tales on the legendary king. The work was dedicated to Prince Albert, the husband of Queen Victoria. During his career, Lord Tennyson attempted drama, but his plays enjoyed little success even in his lifetime.

Tennyson wrote a number of phrases that have become commonplaces of the English language, including: "nature, red in tooth and claw", "better to have loved and lost", "Theirs not to reason why, / Theirs but to do and die", and "My strength is as the strength of ten, / Because my heart is pure". He is the second most frequently quoted writer in the English language, after Shakespeare.

Other Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron Tennyson Quotes

Self reverence, self-knowledge, self control. These three alone lead life to sovereign power.

Two aged men, that had been foes for life, Met by a grave, and wept - and in those tears They washed away the memory of their strife; Then wept again the loss of all those years.

Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.

Speak to Him thou for He hears, And spirit with spirit can meet- Closer is He than breathing, And nearer than hands and feet.

Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control, These three alone lead life to sovereign power.

Of old sat Freedom on the heights The thunders breaking at her feet: Above her shook the starry lights; She heard the torrents meet.

No rock so hard but a little wave may beat admission in A thousand years.

No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly longed for death.

Nature, red in tooth and claw.

His honour rooted in dishonor stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers.

He never sold the truth to serve the hour, Nor paltered with Eternal God for power.

'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.

And on her lover's arm she leant, And round her waist she felt it fold, And far across the hills they went In that new world which is the old.

But over all things brooding slept The quiet sense of something lost.

That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more, Too common!

In time there is no present, In eternity no future, In eternity no past.

The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

I hate that dreadful hollow behind the little wood.

I come from haunt of coot and her, I make s sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.

Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die.

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

The mirror cracked from side to side; 'The curse is come upon me', cried The Lady of Shalott.

Tirra lirra, by the river Sang Sir Lancelot.

Man is the hunter; woman is his game: The sleek and the shining creatures of the chase, We hunt them for the beauty of their skins: They love us for it, and we ride them down.

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair.

It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race.

Some work of noble note may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

It is the little rift within the lute, That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

Who are wise in love, love most, say least.

I hold it true, whatever befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most, 'Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.

For words, like Nature, half reveal And half conceal the Soul within.

Whose faith has center everywhere, Nor cares to fix itself to form.

To sleep I give my powers away; My will is bondsman to the dark.

Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly longed for death.

Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?

I must lose myself in action, lest I wither in despair.

I know that age to age succeeds, Blowing a noise of tongues and deeds, A dust of systems and of creeds.

I, the heir of all the ages, in the foremost files of time.

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

She said, 'I am aweary, aweary, I would that I were dead!'

You must wake and call me early, call me early, mother dear; To-morrow'll be the happiest time of all the glad New Year,— Of all the glad New Year, mother, the maddest, merriest day; For I’m to be Queen o' the May, mother, I'm to be queen o' the May.

Cannon to right of them, Cannon to left of them, Cannon in front of them. .... Into the jaws of death, Into the mouth of hell Rode the six hundred.

Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

... 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.

The old order changeth, yielding place to new, And God fulfills himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me? I have lived my life, and that which I have done May he within himself make pure! but thou, If thou shouldst never see my face again, Pray for my soul....

Christmas and New Year Bells 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. Four voices of four hamlets round, From far and near, on mead and moor, Swell o

The greater man, the greater courtesy.

For manners are not idle, but the fruit Of loyal nature, and of noble mind.

I am going a long way With these thou seëst—if indeed I go (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)— To the island-valley of Avilion, Where falls not hail or rain or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.

Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, To full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For though from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crossed the bar.

My mind is clouded with a doubt.

Not once or twice in our rough-island story The path of duty was the way to glory.

O Love! they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying! And answer, echoes, answer! dying, dying, dying.

Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying! Blow, bugle! answer, echoes! dying, dying, dying.

Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.

Believing where we cannot prove.

Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt, And cling to faith beyond the forms of faith; She reels not at the storm of warring words; She brightens at the clash of 'Yes' and 'No'; She sees the best that glimmers through the worst; She feels the sun is hid for the night; She spies the summer through 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 wailed 'Mirage!'

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

In that fierce light which beats upon a throne.

I am a part of all that I have met.

From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.

He seems to near and yet so far.

God’s finger touched him and he slept.

Oh yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill.

Ah, when shall all men's good Be each man's rule, and universal peace Lie like a shaft of light across the land, And like a lane of beams athwart the sea, Thro' all the circle of the golden year?

Howe’er it be it seems to me, ‘Tis only noble to be good; Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

How fares it with the happy dead?

Man’s word is God in man.

O son, thou hast not true humility, The highest virtue, mother of them all; But her thou hast not know; for what is this? Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself.

Into the jaws of death.

And our spirits rush’d together at the touching of the lips.

Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, Before a thousand peering littlenesses, In that fierce light which beats upon a throne, And blackens every blot.

Wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower.

That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies; 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.

Ah, why Should life all labour be?

Her manners had not that repose Which stamps the caste of Vere de Vere.

A still small voice spake unto me, ‘Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?'

He never mocks, For mockery is the fume of little hearts.

Happy he With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him; and tho' he trip and fall, He shall not blind his soul with clay.

Nature, so far as in her lies, imitates God.

Their’s not to reason why, Their’s but to do and die...

Speak to Him thou for He hears, and Spirit with Spirit can meet— Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.

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

Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.

Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control,— These three alone lead life to sovereign power.

Her eyes are homes of silent prayers.

Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side ? Is there no baseness we would hide ? No inner vileness that we dread ? How many a father have I seen A sober man, among his boys Whose youth was full of foolish noise.

My strength is as the strength of ten because my heart is pure.

And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons, when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet.

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

A rosebud set with little wilful thorns, And sweet as English air could make her, she.

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean. Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.

And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech.

As she fled fast through sun and shade The happy winds upon her play'd, Blowing the ringlet from the braid.

Some one had blunder'd: Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die.

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.

This is truth the poet sings, That a sorrow's crown of sorrow is remembering happier things.

O damned vacillating state!

All in the valley of death Rode the six hundred.

Across the walnuts and the wine.

Be near me when my light is low.

He that wrongs a friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar ever condemned.

Little flower, but if I could understand, what you are, root and all in all, I should know what God and man is.

The shell must break before the bird can fly.

A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair.

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.

Broad based upon her people's will, And compassed by the inviolate sea.

But oh for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

But the jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honour feels.

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

Dear as remember'd kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd On lips that are for others; deep as love,— Deep as first love, and wild with all regret. Oh death in life, the days that are no more!

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

Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null.

For it was in the golden prime Of good Haroun Alraschid.

For men at most differ as Heaven and Earth, But women, worst and best, as Heaven and Hell.

For men may come and men may go, But I go on forever.

For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry.

For this is England's greatest son, He that gain'd a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.

God gives us love. Something to love He lends us; but when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone.

Here at the quiet limit of the world.

His honour rooted in dishonour stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use,— As tho' to breathe were life!

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

I held it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things.

I waited for the train at Coventry; I hung with grooms and porters on the bridge, To watch the three tall spires; and there I shaped The city's ancient legend into this.

I will take some savage woman, she shall rear my dusky race.

In the spring a livelier iris changes on the burnish'd dove; In the spring a young man's fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love.

It becomes no man to nurse despair, but, in the teeth of clenched antagonisms, to follow up the worthiest till he die.

It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.

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

Like a dog, he hunts in dreams.

Like glimpses of forgotten dreams.

Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, pass'd in music out of sight.

Mastering the lawless science of our law,— That codeless myriad of precedent, That wilderness of single instances.

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new.

More black than ash-buds in the front of March.

O love! O fire! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul through My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

O Love! what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine; In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine!

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?

Oh good gray head which all men knew!

Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.

Rich in saving common-sense, And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime.

Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace! Sleep, holy spirit, blessed soul, While the stars burn, the moons increase, And the great ages onward roll.

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet! Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep full of rest from head to feet; Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.

So dear a life your arms enfold, Whose crying is a cry for gold.

Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moan of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.

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

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

There lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds.

There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun.

This laurel greener from the brows Of him that utter'd nothing base.

This truth within thy mind rehearse, That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse.

Unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square.

We are ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times.

With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.

With prudes for proctors, dowagers for deans, And sweet girl-graduates in their golden hair.

Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns.

Thy leaf has perished in the green, And while we breathe beneath the sun, The world which credits what is done Is cold to all that might have been.

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.

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world.

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