[Readers, on this somber anniversary, on which I am sure all of us recall memories both personal and private, and national, and international, I thought it appropriate to publish one of the more moving elegies in English literature, an 1847 poem by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, poet laureate of England, entitled “Tears, Idle Tears.” For reasons beyond my control, the lineation may be a bit off if you are reading this on a mobile device, and for that I do apologize.
Here is Tennyson:]
Tears, Idle Tears
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.
Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.
Comments
No posts