Frederick Tennyson

(1807-1898 / England)

The Holy Tide

THE days are sad, it is the Holy tide:
   The Winter morn is short, the Night is long;
So let the lifeless Hours be glorified
   With deathless thoughts and echo'd in sweet song:
And through the sunset of this purple cup
   They will resume the roses of their prime,
And the old Dead will hear us and wake up,
   Pass with dim smiles and make our hearts sublime!

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