266 ordspråk av Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Come, my friends, 'tis not too late to seek a newer world.
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Come, my friends, 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die.
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Cursed be the gold that gilds the straitened forehead of a fool!
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Dear as remember'd kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd On lips that are for others
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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?
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Drink to lofty hopes that cool -/ Visions of a perfect State.
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Edward Bull/ The curate; he was fatter than his cure.
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Either sex alone is half itself.
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Even tho' thrice again/ The red fool-fury of the Seine/ Should pile her barricades with dead.
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Faith lives in honest doubt.
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Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null, dead perfection; no more
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For what are men better than sheep or goats/ That nourish a blind life within the brain,/ If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer/ Both for themselves and those who call them friend?/ For so the whole round earth is every way/ Bound by gold chains
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Forgive! How many will say, ''forgive,'' and find a sort of absolution in the sound to hate a little longer!
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Forward the Light Brigade! Was there a man dismay'd? Not tho' the soldier knew Someone had blunder'd: Their's not to make reply, Their's not to reason why, Their's but to do and die; Into the valley of death, Rode the six hundred, Cannon to right
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Forward, forward let us range, Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change
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