In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 105

To-night ungather'd let us leave
         This laurel, let this holly stand:
         We live within the stranger's land,
And strangely falls our Christmas-eve.

Our father's dust is left alone
         And silent under other snows:
         There in due time the woodbine blows,
The violet comes, but we are gone.

No more shall wayward grief abuse
         The genial hour with mask and mime;
         For change of place, like growth of time,
Has broke the bond of dying use.

Let cares that petty shadows cast,
         By which our lives are chiefly proved,
         A little spare the night I loved,
And hold it solemn to the past.

But let no footstep beat the floor,
         Nor bowl of wassail mantle warm;
         For who would keep an ancient form
Thro' which the spirit breathes no more?

Be neither song, nor game, nor feast;
         Nor harp be touch'd, nor flute be blown;
         No dance, no motion, save alone
What lightens in the lucid east

Of rising worlds by yonder wood.
         Long sleeps the summer in the seed;
         Run out your measured arcs, and lead
The closing cycle rich in good.

More Poems by Alfred, Lord Tennyson