Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900.
Frederick Tennyson. 18071898688. The Holy Tide
THE days are sad, it is the Holy tide: | |
The Winter morn is short, the Night is long; | |
So let the lifeless Hours be glorified | |
With deathless thoughts and echo’d in sweet song: | |
And through the sunset of this purple cup | 5 |
They will resume the roses of their prime, | |
And the old Dead will hear us and wake up, | |
Pass with dim smiles and make our hearts sublime! | |
The days are sad, it is the Holy tide: | |
Be dusky mistletoes and hollies strown, | 10 |
Sharp as the spear that pierced His sacred side, | |
Red as the drops upon His thorny crown; | |
No haggard Passion and no lawless Mirth | |
Fright off the solemn Muse,—tell sweet old tales, | |
Sing songs as we sit brooding o’er the hearth, | 15 |
Till the lamp flickers, and the memory fails. |