I wage not any feud with Death

For changes wrought on form and face;

No lower life that earth’s embrace

May breed with him, can fright my faith.

Eternal process moving on,

From state to state the spirit walks;

And these are but the shatter’d stalks,

Or ruin’d chrysalis of one.

Nor blame I Death, because he bare

The use of virtue out of earth:

I know transplanted human worth

Will bloom to profit, otherwhere.

For this alone on Death I wreak

The wrath that garners in my heart;

He put our lives so far apart

We cannot hear each other speak.





Lord Alfred Tennyson

More poems by Baron Alfred, Lord Tennyson