“So word by word, and line by line,The dead man touch'd me from the past,And all at once it seem'd at lastThe living soul was flash'd on mine,And mine in his was wound, and whirl'dAbout empyreal heights of thought,And came on that which is, and caughtThe deep pulsations of the world,Æonian music measuring outThe steps of Time—the shocks of Chance--The blows of Death. At length my tranceWas cancell'd, stricken thro' with doubt.”

“That which we dare invoke to bless;Our dearest faith; our ghastliest doubt;He, They, One, All; within, without;The Power in darkness whom we guess;I found Him not in world or sun,Or eagle's wing, or insect's eye;Nor thro' the questions men may try,The petty cobwebs we have spun:If e'er when faith had fall'n asleep,I heard a voice `believe no more'And heard an ever-breaking shoreThat tumbled in the Godless deep;A warmth within the breast would meltThe freezing reason's colder part,And like a man in wrath the heartStood up and answer'd `I have felt.'No, like a child in doubt and fear:But that blind clamour made me wise;Then was I as a child that cries,But, crying, knows his father near;And what I am beheld againWhat is, and no man understands;And out of darkness came the handsThat reach thro' nature, moulding men.”

“Perplext in faith, but pure in deeds,At last he beat his music out.There lives more faith in honest doubt,Believe me, than in half the creeds.He fought his doubts and gather'd strength,He would not make his judgment blind,He faced the spectres of the mindAnd laid them: thus he came at lengthTo find a stronger faith his own;And Power was with him in the night,Which makes the darkness and the light,And dwells not in the light alone,”

“But such a tide as moving seems asleep,too full for sound or foam,when that which drew from outthe boundless deepturns again home.”

“I sometimes hold it half a sinTo put in words the grief I feel;For words, like Nature, half revealAnd half conceal the Soul within.But, for the unquiet heart and brain,A use in measured language lies;The sad mechanic exercise,Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,Like coarsest clothes against the cold:But that large grief which these enfoldIs given in outline and no more.In Memoriam A.H.H. Section 5”

“What hope is here for modern rhymeTo him, who turns a musing eyeOn songs, and deeds, and lives, that lieForeshorten'd in the tract of time?These mortal lullabies of painMay bind a book, may line a box,May serve to curl a maiden's locks;Or when a thousand moons shall waneA man upon a stall may find,And, passing, turn the page that tellsA grief, then changed to something else,Sung by a long-forgotten mind.But what of that? My darken'd waysShall ring with music all the same;To breathe my loss is more than fame,To utter love more sweet than praise.”

“But in her web she still delightsTo weave the mirror’s magic sights,For often thro’ the silent nightsA funeral, with plumes and lights,And music, went to Camelot:Or when the moon was overhead,Came two young lovers lately wed;“I am half-sick of shadows,” saidThe Lady of Shalott.”