The wind, that beats the mountain, blows
More softly round the open wold,
And gently comes the world to those
That are cast in gentle mould.
And me this knowledge bolder made,
’Tis strange that those we lean on most,
God gives us love. Something to love
This is the curse of time. Alas!
He will not smile–not speak to me
Your loss is rarer; for this star
I knew your brother: his mute dust
I have not look’d upon you nigh,
And tho’ mine own eyes fill with dew,
Let Grief be her own mistress still.
I will not say, ‘God’s ordinance
His memory long will live alone
Vain solace! Memory standing near
I wrote I know not what. In truth,
For he too was a friend to me:
Words weaker than your grief would make
Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace:
Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet.
Chronological Index of Tennyson's Works
Timeline of Tennyson's Life
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