Lord Alfred Tennyson

Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet! Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep full of rest from head to feet; Lie still, dry dust, secure of change.

So dear a life your arms enfold, Whose crying is a cry for gold.

Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moan of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.

That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.

The long mechanic pacings to and fro, The set, gray life, and apathetic end.

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new.

More black than ash-buds in the front of March.

O love! O fire! once he drew With one long kiss my whole soul through My lips, as sunlight drinketh dew.

O Love! what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine; In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine!

Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts; Or all the same as if he had not been?