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Alfred Lord Tennyson - In Memoriam A. H. H.: 56
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"So careful of the type?" but no.
        From scarped cliff and quarried stone
        She cries, "A thousand types are gone:
I care for nothing, all shall go.
"Thou makest thine appeal to me:
        I bring to life, I bring to death:
        The spirit does but mean the breath:
I know no more." And he, shall he,
Man, her last work, who seem`d so fair,
       Such splendid purpose in his eyes,
       Who roll`d the psalm to wintry skies,
Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,

Who trusted God was love indeed
       And love Creation`s final law—
       Tho` Nature, red in tooth and claw
With ravine, shriek`d against his creed—

Who loved, who suffer`d countless ills,
       Who battled for the True, the Just,
       Be blown about the desert dust,
Or seal`d within the iron hills?

No more? A monster then, a dream,
       A discord. Dragons of the prime,
       That tare each other in their slime,
Were mellow music match`d with him.

O life as futile, then, as frail!
       O for thy voice to soothe and bless!
       What hope of answer, or redress?
Behind the veil, behind the veil.
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