Alfred Tennyson
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they an,
Tears fro the depth of so dive despair
Risethe heart, and gather to the eyes,
In lookg on the happy Autun-fields,
And thkg of the days that are no ore.
Fresh as the first bea glitterg on a sail,
That brgs our friends fro the underworld,
Sad as the st which reddens over one
That sks with all we love below the verge;
So sad, so fresh, the days that are no ore.
Ah, sad and strange asdark sur dawns
The earliest pipe of the half-awakend birds
To dyg ears, when unto dyg eyes
The t slowly grows a glirg square;
So sad, se, the days that are no ore.
Dear as reberd kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feignd
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Deathlife, the days that are no ore.