 | Poems |  |
AT ALFRED TENNYSON'S.
So you have breathed a week in the very homeOf our sweet dreamer of all golden dreams;
As, thro' my thought, his name's bright radiance streams,
With it, what countless lustrous fancies come,
In whose bright presence well may men grow dumb
With love and worship. Wonder well beseems
The eyes dear friends, on which their lustre beams,
Brightness, alas, dim to the eyes of some.
Ah me! what shapes of heavenly beauty rise
With the dear utterance of his world-loved name!
What forms of majesty time lives to prize,
Splendours that earliest from his rare brain came,
And grandeurs later lent to our blest eyes,
With whose eternal life shall live his fame!
| Poems | |