by Lord Alfred Tennyson

    Tears， idle tears， I know not what they mean，

    Tears from the depth of some divine despair

    Rise in the heart， and gather to the eyes，

    In looking on the happy autumn-fields，

    And thinking of the days that are no more.

    Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail，

    That brings our friends up from the underworld，

    Sad as the last which reddens over one

    That sinks with all we love below the verge；

    So sad， so fresh， the days that are no more.

    Ah， sad and strange as in dark summer dawns

    The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds

    To dying ears， when unto dying eyes

    The casement slowly grows a glimmering square；

    So sad， so strange， the days that are no more.

    Dear as remembered kisses after death，

    And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned

    On lips that are for others； deep as love，

    Deep as first love， and wild with all regret；

    O Death in Life， the days that are no more！