Our little systems have their day They have their day and cease to be They are but broken lights of Thee And Thou, O L-rd, art more than they We hav… - Alfred Tennyson
" "Our little systems have their day
They have their day and cease to be
They are but broken lights of Thee
And Thou, O L-rd, art more than they
We have but faith, we cannot know
For knowledge is of things we see
And yet we trust it comes from Thee
A beam in darkness: let it grow
Let knowledge grow from more to more
But more of reverence in us dwell
That mind and soul, according well
May make one music as before
English
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About Alfred Tennyson
Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron Tennyson (6 August 1809 – 6 October 1892) was the Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom during much of Queen Victoria's reign, after William Wordsworth, and is one of the most popular English poets.
Biography information from Wikiquote
Also Known As
Native Name:
Alfred Tennyson, 1. Baron Tennyson
Alternative Names:
Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron Tennyson
•
Lord Alfred Tennyson
•
Alcibiades
•
A. Tennyson
•
Alfred Tennyson, Baron Tennyson
•
Alfred Tennyson Tennyson
•
Tennyson
•
1st Baron Tennyson of Aldworth and Freshwater Alfred Tennyson
•
Alfred Tennyson d'Eyncourt
•
Lord Tennyson Alfred
•
Alfred Lord Tennyson
•
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
•
Alfred (Lord)
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Additional quotes by Alfred Tennyson
"Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
"Forward the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!" he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Forward, the Light Brigade!"
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wonder'd.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not,
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honor the charge they made!
Honor the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
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And more, my son! for more than once when I
Sat all alone, revolving in myself
The word that is the symbol of myself,
The mortal limit of the Self was loosed,
And past into the Nameless, as a cloud
Melts into Heaven. I touch’d my limbs, the limbs
Were strange not mine – and yet no shade of doubt,
But utter clearness, and thro’ loss of Self
The gain of such large life as match’d with ours
Were Sun to spark – unshadowable in words,
Themselves but shadows of a shadow-world.
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