in memoriam

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 weeps 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