Tears, idle tears
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-awakened 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 feigned
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.
Lord Tennyson
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-awakened 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 feigned
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.
Lord Tennyson
posted by dyingember at 2:03 PM
2 Comments:
I Wish I Was By That Dim Lake
I wish I was by that dim Lake,
where sinful souls their farewell take
of this vain world, and half way lie
in death's cold shadow, ere they die.
There, there, far from thee,
deceitful world, my home should be;
where, come what might of gloom and pain,
false hope should ne'er deceive again.
The lifeless sky, the mournful sound
of unseen waters falling round;
the dry leaves, quiv'ring o'er my head,
like man, unquiet ev'n when dead!
These, ay, these shall wean
my soul from life's deluding scene,
and turn each thought, o'ercharged with gloom,
like willows, downwards towards the tomb.
As they, who to their couch at night
would win repose, first quench the light,
so must the hopes, that keep this breast
Awake, be quench'd, ere it can rest.
Cold, cold, this heart must grow,
unmoved by either joy or woe,
like freezing founts, where all that's thrown
within their current turns to stone.
by Thomas Peacock
Hurrah for Mad Monk Laboratory!
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