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
Alfred Lord Tennyson
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Poem topics: alone, happy, life, sorrow, time, trust, world, dear, voice, sweet, sense, strong, face, speak, year, dust, shine, prime, april, april fools, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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