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Alfred Lord Tennyson - In Memoriam A. H. H.: 72
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Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again,
        And howlest, issuing out of night,
        With blasts that blow the poplar white,
And lash with storm the streaming pane?
Day, when my crown`d estate begun
        To pine in that reverse of doom,
        Which sicken`d every living bloom,
And blurr`d the splendour of the sun;
Who usherest in the dolorous hour
       With thy quick tears that make the rose
       Pull sideways, and the daisy close
Her crimson fringes to the shower;

Who might`st have heaved a windless flame
       Up the deep East, or, whispering, play`d
       A chequer-work of beam and shade
Along the hills, yet look`d the same.

As wan, as chill, as wild as now;
       Day, mark`d as with some hideous crime,
       When the dark hand struck down thro` time,
And cancell`d nature`s best: but thou,

Lift as thou may`st thy burthen`d brows
       Thro` clouds that drench the morning star,
       And whirl the ungarner`d sheaf afar,
And sow the sky with flying boughs,

And up thy vault with roaring sound
       Climb thy thick noon, disastrous day;
       Touch thy dull goal of joyless gray,
And hide thy shame beneath the ground.
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