 | A memoir by Hallam Tennyson (1897) |  |
145
Whispers.
'Tis not alone the warbling woods,The starr'd abysses of the sky,
The silent hills, the stormy floods,
The green that fills the eye—
These only do not move the breast;
Like some wise artist, Nature gives,
Thro' all her works, to each that lives
A hint of somewhat unexprest.
Whate'er I see, where'er I move,
These whispers rise, and fall away,
Something of pain—of bliss—of Love,
But what, were hard to say.
| A memoir by Hallam Tennyson (1897) | |