Frederick Tennyson famous quotes
Last updated: Sep 5, 2024
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What would it profit thee to be the first Of echoes, tho thy tongue should live forever, A thing that answers, but hath not a thought As lasting but as senseless as a stone.
-- Frederick Tennyson -
Softly the loud peal dies, In passing winds it drowns, But breathes, like perfect joys, Tender tones.
-- Frederick Tennyson -
How sweet the harmonies of the afternoon! The Blackbird sings along the sunny breeze His ancient song of leaves, and summer boon; Rich breath of hayfields streams thro' whispering trees; And birds of morning trim their bustling wings, And listen fondly--while the Blackbird sings.
-- Frederick Tennyson -
Tis not for golden eloquence I pray, A godlike tongue to move a stony heart-- Methinks it were full well to be apart In solitary uplands far away, Betwixt the blossoms of a rosy spray, Dreaming upon the wonderful sweet face Of Nature, in a wild and pathless place.
-- Frederick Tennyson
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Do you recall the laughter of the Philistines at the helpless Sampson? You can hear the echo of that laughter to-day, as the church, shorn of her strength by her own sin, is an object of ridicule to the world, who cry in derision, "Where is your boasted triumph and your Millennial glory?
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Seated one day at the organ, I was weary and ill at ease, and my fingers wandered idly over the noisy keys. It seemed the harmonious echo from our discordant life.
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It's important to be conscious of the world we live in. We get one chance, as far as I'm concerned, but we all leave an echo. It's important that our echo resonates positively on the planet and its inhabitants after we're gone.
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Echo of your thoughts has greater impact on the world than your actions.
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Fame is that which is known to exist by the echo of its footsteps through congenial minds.
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I used to believe in forever, but forever's too good to be true
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What to paint was a problem for the war artist... the old heroics, the death and glory stuff, were gone forever... the impressionistic technique I had developed was now ineffective, for visual impressions were not enough.
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His time's forever, everywhere his place.
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All of life is education and everybody is a teacher and everybody is forever a pupil.
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So how can a poet-an intelligent, serious poet-write mystical verse now? The poetry of Adam Zagajewski provides the beginning of an answer to this question.
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