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• But what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light, And with no language but a cry.
  -- Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892) -- In Memoriam, liv, Stanza 5...
• So careful of the type she seems, So careless of the single life.
  -- Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892) -- In Memoriam, lv, Stanza 2...
• 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!...
• He seems so near, and yet so far. -- Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892) -- In Memoriam, xcvii, Stanza 6
• Whose faith has centre everywhere, Nor cares to fix itself to form.
  -- Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892) -- In Memoriam, xxxiii, Stanza 1...
• So many worlds, so much to do, So little done, such things to be.
  -- Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892) -- In Memoriam, lxxiii, Stanza 1...
• Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold
  Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace!...
• 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.
  -- Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892) -- To ------, after reading a Life and Lette...
• None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.
  -- Lord Byron (1788-1824) -- Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto ii, Stanza 24...