A spirit haunts the year’s last hours
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers:
To himself he talks:
For at eventide, listening earnestly,
At his work you may hear him sob and sigh
In the walks;
Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks
Of the mouldering flowers:
Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
Over its grave i’ the earth so chilly;
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.
The air is damp, and hushed, and close,
As a sick man’s room when the taketh repose
An hour before death;
My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves
At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves,
And the breath
Of the fading edges of box beneath,
And the year’s last rose.
Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
Over its grave i’ the earth so chilly;
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.
There’s something so beautiful in the melancholy of the end of the year. Tennyson’s use of natural imagery is spot-on, as usual, in conveying both aspects.
Tennyson, ah!, dear Tennyson. Read somewhere, he drank a quart of port wine daily; wonder if this had anything to do with his remarkable poetry compositions…
A quart of port wine daily? Perhaps we should say he wrote portly. 🙂
Thanls for posting.
My very heart faints and my whole soul grives
SHOULD READ
My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves
Thanks. I’ve made the correction.