Is it, then, regret for buried time
; ; ; ;That keenlier in sweet April wakes,
; ; ; ;And meets the year, and gives and takes
The colours of the crescent prime?
Not all: the songs, the stirring air,
; ; ; ;The life re-orient out of dust,
; ; ; ;Cry thro’ the sense to hearten trust
In that which made the world so fair.
Not all regret: the face will shine
; ; ; Upon me, while I muse alone;
; ; ; And that dear voice, I once have known,
Still speak to me of me and mine:

Yet less of sorrow lives in me
; ; ; For days of happy commune dead;
; ; ; Less yearning for the friendship fled,
Than some strong bond which is to be.

– In Memoriam A. H. H. 116 by Lord Alfred Tennyson

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