Is it, then, regret for buried time <br /> That keenlier in sweet April wakes, <br /> And meets the year, and gives and takes <br /> The colours of the crescent prime? <br /> Not all: the songs, the stirring air, <br /> The life re-orient out of dust, <br /> Cry thro' the sense to hearten trust <br /> In that which made the world so fair. <br /> Not all regret: the face will shine <br /> Upon me, while I muse alone; <br /> And that dear voice, I once have known, <br /> Still speak to me of me and mine: <br /> <br /> Yet less of sorrow lives in me <br /> For days of happy commune dead; <br /> Less yearning for the friendship fled, <br /> Than some strong bond which is to be.<br /><br />Alfred Lord Tennyson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-memoriam-a-h-h-is-it-then-regret-for-buried-t/
