You and I are old; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, N… - Alfred Tennyson

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with gods.

A kind of waking trance I have frequently had, quite from boyhood, when
I have been all alone. This has generally come upon me thro’ repeating my own name two or three times to myself silently, till all at once, as it were
out of the intensity of the consciousness of individuality, the individuality
itself seemed to dissolve and fade away into boundless being, and this not a
confused state, but the clearest of the clearest, the weirdest of the weirdest,
utterly beyound words, where death was an almost laughable impossibility,
the loss of personality (if so it were) seeming no extinction but the only
true life.

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.

In the afternoon they came unto a land
In which it seemed always afternoon.
All around the coast the languid air did swoon,
Breathing like one that hath a weary dream.