Poems (Tennyson, 1833)/To —

by Alfred Tennyson

For works with similar titles, see To —.

TO ———

 

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i.

All good things have not kept aloof,

⁠Nor wandered into other ways:
I have not lacked thy mild reproof,
⁠Nor golden largess of thy praise,
⁠But life is full of weary days.

ii.

Shake hands, my friend, across the brink

⁠Of that deep grave to which I go.
Shake hands once more: I cannot sink
⁠So far—far down, but I shall know
⁠Thy voice, and answer from below.

iii.

When, in the darkness over me,

⁠The fourhanded mole shall scrape,
Plant thou no dusky cypresstree,
⁠Nor wreathe thy cap with doleful crape,
⁠But pledge me in the flowing grape.

iv.

And when the sappy field and wood

⁠Grow green beneath the showery gray,
And rugged barks begin to bud,
⁠And through damp holts, newflushed with May,
⁠Ring sudden langhters of the Jay;

v.

Then let wise Nature work her will

⁠And on my clay her darnels grow.
Come only, when the days are still,
⁠And at my headstone whisper low,
⁠And tell me if the woodbines blow,

vi.

If thou art blest, my mother's smile

⁠Undimmed, if bees are on the wing:
Then cease, my friend, a little while,
⁠That I may hear the throstle sing
⁠His bridal song, the boast of spring.

vii.

Sweet as the noise in parchèd plains

⁠Of bubbling wells that fret the stones,
(If any sense in me remains)
⁠Thy words will be; thy cheerful tones
⁠As welcome to my crumbling hones.