Dark house, by which once more I stand
Here in the long unlovely street,
Doors, where my heart was used to beat
So quickly, waiting for a hand,
A hand that can be clasp'd no more -
Behold me, for I cannot sleep,
And like a guilty thing I creep
At earliest morning to the door.
He is not here; but far away
The noise of life begins again,
And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain
On the bald street breaks the blank day.
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,
Too 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 tho' 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.
if you don't concentrate on what you are doing then the thing that you are doing is not what you are thinking.
Alfred TennysonThe shell must break before the bird can fly.
Alfred TennysonMots clés inspirational
The woman's cause is man's. They rise or sink
Together. Dwarf'd or godlike, bound or free; miserable,
How shall men grow?--Let her be
All that not harms distinctive womanhood.
Mots clés the-christian-wife
So many worlds, so much to do, so little done, such things to be.
Alfred TennysonAnd down I went to fetch my bride:
But, Alice, you were ill at ease;
This dress and that by turns you tried,
Too fearful that you should not please.
I loved you better for your fears,
I knew you could not look but well;
And dews, that would have fall'n in tears,
I kiss'd away before they fell.
Mots clés tears comfort wedding fears self-consciousness dresses
Seal'd her minefrom her first sweet breath
Mine, and mine by right, from birth till death
Mine, mine-our fathers have sworn.
In the afternoon they came unto a land
In which it seemed always afternoon.
All around the coast the languid air did swoon,
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.
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Ours is not to wonder why. Ours is just to do or die.
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