With weary steps I loiter on, Tho' always under alter'd skies The purple from the distance dies, My prospect and horizon gone.
No joy the blowing season gives, The herald melodies of spring, But in the songs I love to sing A doubtful gleam of solace lives.
If any care for what is here Survive in spirits render'd free, Then are these songs I sing of thee Not all ungrateful to thine ear.
-Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H., Canto XXXVIII
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