What hope is there for modern rhyme To him, who turns a musing eye On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie Forshorten'd in the tract of time? These… - Alfred Tennyson

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What hope is there for modern rhyme
To him, who turns a musing eye
On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie
Forshorten'd in the tract of time?

These mortal lullabies of pain
May bind a book, may line a box,
May serve to curl a maiden's locks;
Or when a thousand moons shall wane

A man upon a stall may find,
And, passing, turn the page that tells
A grief_ then changed to something else,
Sung by a long forgotten mind.

But what of that? My darken'd ways
Shall ring with music all the same;
To breathe my loss is more than fame,
To utter love more sweet than praise.