© 2018 by Samantha Mack

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Canto LXIX




I dream'd there would be Spring no more,    That Nature's ancient power was lost:    The streets were black with smoke and frost, They chatter'd trifles at the door:


I wander'd from the noisy town,    I found a wood with thorny boughs:    I took the thorns to bind my brows, I wore them like a civic crown:


I met with scoffs, I met with scorns    From youth and babe and hoary hairs:    They call'd me in the public squares The fool that wears a crown of thorns:


They call'd me fool, they call'd me child:    I found an angel of the night;    The voice was low, the look was bright; He look'd upon my crown and smiled:


He reach'd the glory of a hand,    That seem'd to touch it into leaf:    The voice was not the voice of grief, The words were hard to understand.


-Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H., Canto LXIX