Come not when I am dead
Come not, when I am dead, / To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,
In Memoriam A. H. H. Obiit MDCCCXXXIII
❦
O Sorrow, cruel fellowship,
; ; ; ;O Priestess in the vaults of Death,
; ; ; ;O sweet and bitter in a breath,
What whispers from thy lying lip?
The stars, she whispers, blindly run;
; ; ; ;A web is wov'n across the sky;
; ; ; ;From out waste places comes a cry,
And murmurs from the dying sun:
And all the phantom, Nature, stands—
; ; ; With all the music in her tone,
; ; ; A hollow echo of my own,—
A hollow form with empty hands.
And shall I take a thing so blind,
; ; ; Embrace her as my natural good;
; ; ; Or crush her, like a vice of blood,
Upon the threshold of the mind?
More poems by Lord Alfred Tennyson
Blow, Bugle, Blow
THE splendour falls on castle walls / ; And snowy summits old in story:
Marriage Morning
Light, so low upon earth, / ; You send a flash to the sun.
In Memoriam 82: I Wage Not Any Feud With Death
I wage not any feud with Death / For changes wrought on form and face;