Our little systems have their day They have their day and cease to be They are but broken lights of Thee And Thou, O L-rd, art more than they We hav… - Alfred Tennyson

Our little systems have their day;
They have their day and cease to be…
And thou, O Lord, art more than they.

"Our little systems have their day;
They have their day and cease to be:
They are but broken lights of thee,
And thou, O Lord, art more than they." — Lord Alfred Tennyson, In Memoriam A.H.H.

Break, break, break At the foot of thy crags, O Sea! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

The poet in a golden clime was born, With golden stars above; Dower'd with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love. He saw thro' life and death, thro' good and ill, He saw thro' his own soul. The marvel of the everlasting will, An open scroll, Before him lay; with echoing feet he threaded The secretest walks of fame: The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headed And wing'd with flame, Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue...

When every morning brought a noble chance, And every chance brought out a noble knight.