Sometimes Someone Else Says It Better II

With weary steps I loiter on,

Tho’ always under alter’d skies

The purple from the distance dies,

My prospect and horizon gone.

No joy the blowing season gives,

The herald melodies of spring,

But in the songs I love to sing

A doubtful gleam of solace lives.

If any care for what is here

Survive in spirits render’d free,

Then are these songs I sing of thee

Not all ungrateful to thine ear.

Be near me when my light is low,
When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick
And tingle; and the heart is sick,
And all the wheels of Being slow.

Be near me when the sensuous frame
Is rack'd with pangs that conquer trust;
And Time, a maniac scattering dust,
And Life, a Fury slinging flame.

Be near me when my faith is dry,
And men the flies of latter spring,
That lay their eggs, and sting and sing
And weave their petty cells and die.

Be near me when I fade away,
To point the term of human strife,
And on the low dark verge of life
The twilight of eternal day.

- Alfred, Lord Tennyson (Selections from In Memoriam)