"So careful of the type?" but no. <br /> From scarped cliff and quarried stone <br /> She cries, "A thousand types are gone: <br /> I care for nothing, all shall go. <br /> "Thou makest thine appeal to me: <br /> I bring to life, I bring to death: <br /> The spirit does but mean the breath: <br /> I know no more." And he, shall he, <br /> Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair, <br /> Such splendid purpose in his eyes, <br /> Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies, <br /> Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer, <br /> <br /> Who trusted God was love indeed <br /> And love Creation's final law-- <br /> Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw <br /> With ravine, shriek'd against his creed-- <br /> <br /> Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills, <br /> Who battled for the True, the Just, <br /> Be blown about the desert dust, <br /> Or seal'd within the iron hills? <br /> <br /> No more? A monster then, a dream, <br /> A discord. Dragons of the prime, <br /> That tare each other in their slime, <br /> Were mellow music match'd with him. <br /> <br /> O life as futile, then, as frail! <br /> O for thy voice to soothe and bless! <br /> What hope of answer, or redress? <br /> Behind the veil, behind the veil.<br /><br />Alfred Lord Tennyson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-memoriam-a-h-h-56-so-careful-of-the-type-but/
