Tears, Idle Tears

Lord Alfred Tennyson

 
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-awakened 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 feigned
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!
 

Poems by This Author

In Memoriam, Epilogue, [O true and tried, so well and long] by Lord Alfred Tennyson
O true and tried, so well and long
In Memoriam, [Ring out, wild bells] by Lord Alfred Tennyson
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky
In Memoriam, [To Sleep I give my powers away] by Lord Alfred Tennyson
To Sleep I give my powers away
Break, Break, Break by Lord Alfred Tennyson
Break, break, break
Crossing the Bar by Lord Alfred Tennyson
Sunset and evening star
from The Princess [Sweet and low, sweet and low] by Lord Alfred Tennyson
Sweet and low, sweet and low,
The Charge of the Light Brigade by Lord Alfred Tennyson
Half a league, half a league
The Eagle by Lord Alfred Tennyson
He clasps the crag with crooked hands
The Hesperides by Lord Alfred Tennyson
The North-wind fall'n, in the new starréd night
The Kraken by Lord Alfred Tennyson
Below the thunders of the upper deep
The Lady of Shalott by Lord Alfred Tennyson
On either side the river lie
The Splendor Falls by Lord Alfred Tennyson
The splendor falls on castle walls
Tithonus by Lord Alfred Tennyson
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall
Ulysses by Lord Alfred Tennyson
It little profits that an idle king,