© 2018 by Samantha Mack

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Canto XIII




Tears of the widower, when he sees    A late-lost form that sleep reveals,    And moves his doubtful arms, and feels Her place is empty, fall like these;


Which weep a loss for ever new,    A void where heart on heart reposed;    And, where warm hands have prest and closed, Silence, till I be silent too.


Which weep the comrade of my choice,    An awful thought, a life removed,    The human-hearted man I loved, A Spirit, not a breathing voice.


Come, Time, and teach me, many years,    I do not suffer in a dream;   For now so strange do these things seem, Mine eyes have leisure for their tears;


My fancies time to rise on wing,    And glance about the approaching sails,    As tho' they brought but merchants' bales, And not the burthen that they bring.


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