In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 116

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Is it, then, regret for buried time
 That keenlier in sweet April wakes,
 And meets the year, and gives and takes
The colours of the crescent prime?

Not all: the songs, the stirring air,
 The life re-orient out of dust,
 Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust
In that which made the world so fair.

Not all regret: the face will shine
 Upon me, while I muse alone;
 And that dear voice, I once have known,
Still speak to me of me and mine:

Yet less of sorrow lives in me
 For days of happy commune dead;
 Less yearning for the friendship fled,
Than some strong bond which is to be.

© Alfred Tennyson