LORD TENNYSON

There has fallen a splendid tear

From the passion-flower at the gate. She is coming, my dove, my dear;

She is coming, my life, my fate; The red rose cries, * She is near, she is near ; '

And the white rose weeps, 'She is late,-' The larkspur listens, ' I hear, I hear ; '

And the lily whispers, ' I wait.'

She is coming, my own, my sweet ;

Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat,

Were it earth in an earthy bed ; My dust would hear her and beat,

Had I lain for a century dead , Would start and tremble under her feet,

And blossom in purple and red.

��7 op that ' 'twere possible

THAT 'twere possible

After long grief and pain To find the arms of my true love Round me once again ! . . .

A shadow flits before me,

Not thou, but like to thee :

Ah, Christ! that it were possible

For one short hour to see

The souls we loved, that they might tell us

What and where they be !

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