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In Memoriam A. H. H.: Is it, then, regret for buried time

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.

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

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Alfred Lord Tennyson

Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron Tennyson, FRS was Poet Laureate of Great Britain and Ireland during much of Queen Victoria's reign and remains one of the most popular British poets.  more…

All Alfred Lord Tennyson poems | Alfred Lord Tennyson Books

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