Old warder of these buried bones, <br /> And answering now my random stroke <br /> With fruitful cloud and living smoke, <br /> Dark yew, that graspest at the stones <br /> And dippest toward the dreamless head, <br /> To thee too comes the golden hour <br /> When flower is feeling after flower; <br /> But Sorrow--fixt upon the dead, <br /> And darkening the dark graves of men,-- <br /> What whisper'd from her lying lips? <br /> Thy gloom is kindled at the tips, <br /> And passes into gloom again.<br /><br />Alfred Lord Tennyson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/in-memoriam-a-h-h-39-old-warder-of-these-buried/
