Monday, 28 May 2012

Things of Old

I first came upon this poem by Lord Alfred Tennyson on a blog someone had written has an obituary. The writer there had quoted just two lines. And ever since I had wanted it to post on mine too. 

Tennyson talks of a memory. Remembering a time that you have spent with a friend, who is now gone. And gone with him is the time you spent together. People change, time moves on. Relationships change. With all the transformations, the old charm of things dear, gets buried deep into the layers of the heart. It lies there, never spoken of. Quietly. It becomes an archive of your life. To transfer you, into the space you left behind, at your beckoning. Like a magic carpet.



Tears, Idle Tears

 Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair

Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.


   Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,

That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.


   Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns

The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.


   Dear as remembered kisses after death,

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!





No comments:

Post a Comment

If you were here, drop a line.