Days and Hours By Frederick Tennyson |
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V
Hark! the loud-voiced bells
Stream on the world around
With the full wind, as it swells,
Seas of sound!
It is a Voice that calls to onward years—
‘Turn back, and when Delight is fled away,
Look thro' the evening mists of mortal tears
On this immortal Day.’
Stream on the world around
With the full wind, as it swells,
Seas of sound!
It is a Voice that calls to onward years—
‘Turn back, and when Delight is fled away,
Look thro' the evening mists of mortal tears
On this immortal Day.’
That Memory, like the deep light in the West,
Shall bathe your hearts, before ye sink to rest,
Not only with the glow of good things gone,
But with the faith, that, when your days be done,
Another Morn shall rise, but not to set,
And ye shall meet once more, as once ye met,
Your Beauty wrought to Glory by the Giver,
The Joy within ye perfected for ever!
Shall bathe your hearts, before ye sink to rest,
Not only with the glow of good things gone,
But with the faith, that, when your days be done,
Another Morn shall rise, but not to set,
And ye shall meet once more, as once ye met,
Your Beauty wrought to Glory by the Giver,
The Joy within ye perfected for ever!
60
Oh! what rare thoughts are his, oh! what delight
To gaze upon her, hold her in his sight,
To quaff her smiles, as thirsty bees that sup,
Nuzzled within a noonday lily's cup,
The last sweets, lest a drop be there in vain;
And in that rapture all remember'd pain
Exhales, and for a moment he can see
A lightning flash of what the Soul shall be!
To gaze upon her, hold her in his sight,
To quaff her smiles, as thirsty bees that sup,
Nuzzled within a noonday lily's cup,
The last sweets, lest a drop be there in vain;
And in that rapture all remember'd pain
Exhales, and for a moment he can see
A lightning flash of what the Soul shall be!
But She—dear heart—her thoughts are fled once more
To far-off morns, and summer nights of yore,
Mayings, and nuttings, and the old folks' tale,
Hayfield and harvest, and the dance i' the dale;
Home words she loved—quaint hopes whereon she fed,
The songs she sung—the faithful words she read—
Till she has need to look up to his eyes
For all their warmth to sun her timeless sighs.
To far-off morns, and summer nights of yore,
Mayings, and nuttings, and the old folks' tale,
Hayfield and harvest, and the dance i' the dale;
Home words she loved—quaint hopes whereon she fed,
The songs she sung—the faithful words she read—
Till she has need to look up to his eyes
For all their warmth to sun her timeless sighs.
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