So many worlds, so much to do,
      So little done, such things to be,
      How know I what had need of thee,
For thou wert strong as thou wert true?

The fame is quench'd that I foresaw,
      The head hath miss'd an earthly wreath:
      I curse not nature, no, nor death;
For nothing is that errs from law.

We pass; the path that each man trod
      Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds:
      What fame is left for human deeds
In endless age? It rests with God.

O hollow wraith of dying fame,
      Fade wholly, while the soul exults,
      And self-infolds the large results
Of force that would have forged a name.


Victorian Website Overview Alfred Lord Tennyson In Memoriam Leading Questions next

Last modified 14 February 2010