. The poetic and dramatic works of Alfred lord Tennyson. sang,And round us all the thicket rang To many a flute of Arcady. XXIV And was the day of my delightAs pure and perfect as I say ?The very source and fount of day Is dashd with wandering isles ofnight. If all was good and fair we earth had been the ParadiseIt never lookd to human eyes Since our first sun arose and set. And is it that the haze of griefMakes former gladness loom so great ?The lowness of the present state, That sets the past in this relief ? Or that the past will always winA glory from its being far,And orb into th
. The poetic and dramatic works of Alfred lord Tennyson. sang,And round us all the thicket rang To many a flute of Arcady. XXIV And was the day of my delightAs pure and perfect as I say ?The very source and fount of day Is dashd with wandering isles ofnight. If all was good and fair we earth had been the ParadiseIt never lookd to human eyes Since our first sun arose and set. And is it that the haze of griefMakes former gladness loom so great ?The lowness of the present state, That sets the past in this relief ? Or that the past will always winA glory from its being far,And orb into the perfect star We saw not when we moved therein ? xxvthis was Life, —the I know thattrackWhereon with equal feet we fared ;And then, as now, the day preparedThe daily burden for the back. But this it was that made me moveAs light as carrier-birds in air ;I loved the weight I had to bear, Because it needed help of Love ; Nor could I weary, heart or limb,When mighty Love would cleave in twainThe lading of a single pain, And part it, giving half to 4 They laid him by the pleasant shore,And in the hearing of the wave 226 IN MEMORIAM XXVI Still onward winds the dreary way;I with it, for I long to proveNo lapse of moons can canker Love, Whatever fickle tongues may say. And if that eye which watches guiltAnd goodness, and hath power to seeWithin the green the moulderd tree, And towers fallen as soon as built — O, if indeed that eye foreseeOr see — in Him is no before —In more of life true life no more And Love the indifference to be, Then might I find, ere yet the mornBreaks hither over Indian seas,That Shadow waiting with the keys, To shroud me from my proper scorn. XXVII I envy not in any moodsThe captive void of noble rage,The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods ; I envy not the beast that takesHis license in the field of time,Unfetterd by the sense of crime, To whom a conscience never wakes; Nor, what may count itself as blest,The heart that
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