Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809–1892)

From ‘In Memoriam’

DARK house, by which once more I stand

Here in the long unlovely street,

Doors, where my heart was used to beat

So quickly, waiting for a hand,

A hand that can be clasp’d no more—

Behold me, for I cannot sleep,

And like a guilty thing I creep

At earliest morning to the door.

He is not here; but far away

The noise of life begins again,

And ghastly thro’ the drizzling rain

On the bald street breaks the blank day.

*****

O days and hours, your work is this,

To hold me from my proper place,

A little while from his embrace,

For fuller gain of after bliss:

That out of distance might ensue

Desire of nearness doubly sweet;

And unto meeting when we meet,

Delight a hundredfold accrue,

For every grain of sand that runs,

And every span of shade that steals,

And every kiss of toothèd wheels,

And all the courses of the suns.