| Tears, idle tears, I know now what they mean, Tears from the depth of some divine despair Rise in the heart, and gather in the eyes, In looking on the happy Autumn-fields, And thinking of the days that are no more. Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail, That brings our friends up from the underworld, Sad as the last which reddens over one That sinks with all we love below the verge; So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more. Ah, sad and strage as in dark summer dawns The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds To drying ears, when unto dying eyes The casement slowly grows a glimmering square; So sad, so strange, the days that are no more. Dear as remembered kisses after death, And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned On lips that are for others; deep as love, Deep as first love, and wild with all regret; O Death in life, the days that are no more. |
| Tears, Idle Tears |
| Alfred, Lord Tennyson |