Tears, idle tears! Ah, who shall bid us weep, <br />Now that thy lyre, O prophet, is unstrung? <br />What voice shall rouse the dull world from its sleep <br />And lead its requiem as when Grief was young, <br />And thou in thy rapt youth, Time's bards among, <br />Captured our ears, and we looked up and heard <br />Spring's sweetest music on thy mourning tongue <br />And knew thee for Pain's paradisal bird. <br />We are alone without thee in our tears, <br />Alone in our mute chauntings. Vows are vain <br />To tell thee how we loved thee in those years <br />Nor dream to look upon thy like again. <br />We know not how to weep without thy aid, <br />Since all that tears would tell thyself hast said.<br /><br />Wilfrid Scawen Blunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/alfred-tennyson/
