I leave thy praises unexpress'd In verse that brings myself relief, And by the measure of my grief I leave thy greatness to be guess'd;
What practice howsoe'er expert In fitting aptest words to things, Or voice the richest-toned that sings, Hath power to give thee as thou wert?
I care not in these fading days To raise a cry that lasts not long, And round thee with the breeze of song To stir a little dust of praise.
Thy leaf has perish'd in the green, And, while we breathe beneath the sun, The world which credits what is done Is cold to all that might have been.
So here shall silence guard thy fame; But somewhere, out of human view, Whate'er thy hands are set to do Is wrought with tumult of acclaim.
-Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H., Canto LXXV