FREE BOOKS

Author's List




PREV.   NEXT  
|<   155   156   157   158   159   160   161   162   163   164   165   166   167   168   169   170   171   172   173   174   175   176   177   178   179  
180   181   182   183   184   185   186   187   188   189   190   191   192   193   194   195   196   197   198   199   200   201   202   203   204   >>   >|  
had such reverence for his blame, See with clear eye some hidden shame, And I be lessened in his love? I wrong the grave with fears untrue: Shall love be blamed for want of faith? There must be wisdom with great Death: The dead shall look me through and through. Be near us when we climb or fall: Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours With larger other eyes than ours, To make allowance for us all. DEATH IN LIFE'S PRIME. LXXII. So many worlds, so much to do, So little done, such things to be, How know I what had need of thee? For thou wert strong as thou wert true. The fame is quenched that I foresaw, The head hath missed an earthly wreath: I curse not nature, no, nor death; For nothing is that errs from law. We pass; the path that each man trod Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds: What fame is left for human deeds In endless age? It rests with God. O hollow wraith of dying fame, Fade wholly, while the soul exults, And self-enfolds the large results Of force that would have forged a name. THE POET'S TRIBUTE. LXXVI. What hope is here for modern rhyme To him who turns a musing eye On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie Foreshortened in the tract of time? These mortal lullabies of pain May bind a book, may line a box, May serve to curl a maiden's locks: Or when a thousand moons shall wane A man upon a stall may find, And, passing, turn the page that tells. A grief, then changed to something else, Sung by a long-forgotten mind. But what of that? My darkened ways Shall ring with music all the same; To breathe my loss is more than fame, To utter love more sweet than praise. ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON. APRES. Down, down, Ellen, my little one, Climbing so tenderly up to my knee; Why should you add to the thoughts that are taunting me, Dreams of your mother's arms clinging to me? Cease, cease, Ellen, my little one, Warbling so fairily close to my ear; Why should you choose, of all songs that are haunting me, This that I made for your mother to hear? Hush, hush, Ellen, my little one, Wailing so wearily under the stars; Why should I think of her tears, that might light to me Love that had made life, and sorrow that mars? Sleep, sleep, Ellen, my little one! Is she not like her whenever she stirs? Has she not eyes that will soon be as bright to me, Lips that will some day be honeyed like hers? Yes, yes, Ellen, my litt
PREV.   NEXT  
|<   155   156   157   158   159   160   161   162   163   164   165   166   167   168   169   170   171   172   173   174   175   176   177   178   179  
180   181   182   183   184   185   186   187   188   189   190   191   192   193   194   195   196   197   198   199   200   201   202   203   204   >>   >|  



Top keywords:
mother
 

breathe

 
darkened
 

passing

 
maiden
 

thousand

 

mortal

 
lullabies
 

changed

 

forgotten


thoughts
 

sorrow

 

Wailing

 

wearily

 

honeyed

 
bright
 

Climbing

 
tenderly
 
praise
 

ALFRED


TENNYSON

 

taunting

 

choose

 

haunting

 

fairily

 

Warbling

 

Dreams

 

clinging

 

enfolds

 

worlds


allowance
 

larger

 

quenched

 
foresaw
 

missed

 

strong

 

things

 

rolling

 
untrue
 
blamed

lessened

 

reverence

 
hidden
 

wisdom

 

earthly

 

forged

 

results

 

exults

 

musing

 

TRIBUTE