Page:In memoriam (IA inmemoriam00tennrich).pdf/140

 My pulses therefore beat again For other friends that once I met; Nor can it suit me to forget The mighty hopes that make us men.

I woo your love: I count it crime To mourn for any overmuch; I, the divided half of such A friendship as had master'd Time;

Which masters Time indeed, and is Eternal, separate from fears. The all-assuming months and years Can take no part away from this:

But Summer on the steaming floods, And Spring that swells the narrow brooks, And Autumn, with a noise of rooks, That gather in the waning woods,

And every pulse of wind and wave Recalls, in change of light or gloom, My old affection of the tomb, And my prime passion in the grave: