In Memoriam A. H. H. Obiit Mdcccxxxiii: Part 077

Alfred Lord Tennyson

What hope is here for modern rhyme
  To him, who turns a musing eye
  On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie
Foreshorten’d in the tract of time?

These mortal lullabies of pain
  May bind a book, may line a box,
  May serve to curl a maiden’s locks;
Or when a thousand moons shall wane

A man upon a stall may find,
  And, passing, turn the page that tells
  A grief, then changed to something else,
Sung by a long-forgotten mind.

But what of that? My darken’d ways
  Shall ring with music all the same;
  To breathe my loss is more than fame,
To utter love more sweet than praise.

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