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Alfred Lord Tennyson

(6 August 1809 – 6 October 1892 / Lincoln / England)

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In Memoriam A. H. H.


In Memoriam A. H. H., by Alfred lord TennysonOBIIT
MDCCCXXXIIIStrong Son of God, immortal Love,I held it truth, with him who singsOld Yew, which graspest at the stonesO Sorrow, cruel fellowship,To Sleep I give my powers away;I sometimes hold it half a sinOne writes, that `Other friends remain,'Dark house, by which once more I standA happy lover who has comeFair ship, that from the Italian shoreI hear the noise about thy keel;Calm is the morn without a sound,Lo, as a dove when up she springsTears of the widower, when he seesIf one should bring me this report,To-night the winds begin to riseWhat words are these have fall'n from me?Thou comest, much wept for: such a breeze'Tis well; 'tis something; we may stand The Danube to the Severn gaveThe lesser griefs that may be said,I sing to him that rests below,The path by which we twain did go,Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut,And was the day of my delightI know that this was Life, -- the trackStill onward winds the dreary way; I envy not in any moodsThe time draws near the birth of Christ:With such compelling cause to grieveWith trembling fingers did we weaveWhen Lazarus left his charnel-cave,Her eyes are homes of silent prayer,O thou that after toil and stormMy own dim life should teach me this, Yet if some voice that man could trustTho' truths in manhood darkly join,Urania speaks with darken'd brow:With weary steps I loiter on,Old warder of these buried bones,Could we forget the widow'd hourThy spirit ere our fatal loss I vex my heart with fancies dim:If Sleep and Death be truly one,How fares it with the happy dead?The baby new to earth and sky,We ranging down this lower track,That each, who seems a separate whole,If these brief lays, of Sorrow born,From art, from nature, from the schools,Be near me when my light is low,Do we indeed desire the deadI cannot love thee as I ought,How many a father have I seen,Oh, yet we trust that somehow goodThe wish, that of the living whole "So careful of the type?" but no.Peace; come away: the song of woeIn those sad words I took farewell:O Sorrow, wilt thou live with meHe past; a soul of nobler tone:If, in thy second state sublime,Tho' if an eye that's downward cast Yet pity for a horse o'er-driven,Dost thou look back on what hath been,Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt;You thought my heart too far diseased; When on my bed the moonlight falls,When in the down I sink my head,I dream'd there would be Spring no more,I cannot see the features right,Sleep, kinsman thou to death and tranceRisest thou thus, dim dawn, again,So many worlds, so much to do,As sometimes in a dead man's face,I leave thy praises unexpress'd Take wings of fancy, and ascend,What hope is here for modern rhymeAgain at Christmas did we weave "More than my brothers are to me," -- If any vague desire should rise,Could I have said while he was here,I wage not any feud with DeathDip down upon the northern shore,When I contemplate all aloneThis truth came borne with bier and pallSweet after showers, ambrosial air,I past beside the reverend wallsWild bird, whose warble, liquid sweet,Witch-elms that counterchange the floorHe tasted love with half his mind,When rosy plumelets tuft the larch, If any vision should revealI shall not see thee. Dare I sayHow pure at heart and sound in head,By night we linger'd on the lawn,You say, but with no touch of scorn,My love has talk'd with rocks and trees;You leave us: you will see the Rhine,Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again, I climb the hill: from end to endUnwatch'd, the garden bough shall sway, We leave the well-beloved place On that last night before we wentThe time draws near the birth of Christ;To-night ungather'd let us leaveRing out, wild bells, to the wild sky,It is the day when he was born,I will not shut me from my kind,Heart-affluence in discursive talkThy converse drew us with delight,The churl in spirit, up or downHigh wisdom holds my wisdom less,'Tis held that sorrow makes us wise;Who loves not Knowledge? Who shall railNow fades the last long streak of snow,Is it, then, regret for buried timeO days and hours, your work is thisContemplate all this work of Time, Doors, where my heart was used to beatI trust I have not wasted breath:Sad Hesper o'er the buried sunOh, wast thou with me, dearest, then,There rolls the deep where grew the tree.That which we dare invoke to bless;Whatever I have said or sung,Love is and was my Lord and King,And all is well, tho' faith and formThe love that rose on stronger wings,Dear friend, far off, my lost desire,Thy voice is on the rolling air;O living will that shalt endureO true and tried, so well and long,In Memoriam A. H. H., by Alfred lord TennysonIn Memoriam A. H. H., by Alfred lord Tennyson
OBIIT
MDCCCXXXIII
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