In Memoriam

Dark house, by which once more I stand

Here in the long unlovely street,

Door, where my heart was used to beat

So quickly, waiting for a hand,

…

A hand that can be clasp’d no more —

Behold me, for I cannot sleep,

And like a guilty thing I creep

At earliest morning to the door.

…

He is not here; but far away

The noise of life begins again,

And ghastly thro’ the drizzling rain

On the bald street breaks the blank day.

…

Tennyson, ‘In Memoriam’, VII.

…

There is something so strictly musical about Tennyson — I find his verse (the little that I’ve read!) some of the most easily scanned. The metrical skeleton almost chimes free from its sense, and I have found myself reading aloud whole pages from ‘In Memoriam’ before realising that instead of comprehending, I had merely been listening (and only to myself, moreover…).