Ron Tranmer: Our family chain is broken
Borges: There is a mirror that has seen me the last time

Matthew Arnold: The vasty hall of Death



Strew on her roses, roses,
and never a spray of yew.
In quiet she reposes:
Ah! would that I did too.

Her mirth the world required:
she bathed it in smiles of  glee.
But her heart was tired, tired,
and now they let her be.

Her life was turning, turning,
in mazes of heat and sound.
But for peace her soul was yearning,
and now peace laps her round.

Her cabined, ample Spirit,
it fluttered and failed for breath.
Tonight it doth inherit
the vasty hall of Death.

     --Matthew Arnold (1822-1888), in The Poems of Matthew Arnold, 1840-1866, published 1908.


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"Tears, Idle Tears"
Alfred Lord Tennyson

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.

Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
That brings our friends up from the underworld,
Sad as the last which reddens over one
That sinks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns
The earliest pipe of half-awaken'd birds
To dying ears, when unto dying eyes
The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;
So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feign'd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more.

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