I wage not any feud with Death For changes wrought on form and face; No lower life that earth's embrace May breed with him, can fright my faith.
Eternal process moving on, From state to state the spirit walks; And these are but the shatter'd stalks, Or ruin'd chrysalis of one.
Nor blame I Death, because he bare The use of virtue out of earth: I know transplanted human worth Will bloom to profit, otherwhere.
For this alone on Death I wreak The wrath that garners in my heart; He put our lives so far apart We cannot hear each other speak.
-Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H., Canto LXXXII