Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut, Or breaking into song by fits, Alone, alone, to where he sits, The Shadow cloak'd from head to foot,
Who keeps the keys of all the creeds, I wander, often falling lame, And looking back to whence I came, Or on to where the pathway leads;
And crying, How changed from where it ran Thro' lands where not a leaf was dumb; But all the lavish hills would hum The murmur of a happy Pan:
When each by turns was guide to each, And Fancy light from Fancy caught, And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech;
And all we met was fair and good, And all was good that Time could bring, And all the secret of the Spring Moved in the chambers of the blood;
And many an old philosophy On Argive heights divinely sang, And round us all the thicket rang To many a flute of Arcady.
-Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H., Canto XXIII