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CLOSE OF THE ERA
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON, POET LAUREATE
Died OCTOBER 6, 1892
“Only till Sunday next, and then you 'll A reverent one. Though we to-day wait
Distrust beliefs and powers,
Are fresh as May's own flowers,
Starring some pure primeval spring,
Ere Life was yet a selfish thing, Dear Prue won't look, and Father he'll go Or Love a mere exotic !
on, And Sam's two Eyes are all for Cissy, I need not search too much to find John!
Whose lot it was to send it,
That feel upon me yet the kind, “ John, she's so smart, — with every ribbon Soft hand of her who penned it;
In by-gone, quaint apparel,
The face of Patience Caryl, -
The pale, smooth forehead, silver-tressed;
The gray gown, primly flowered ;
The spotless, stately coif whose crest
And still the sweet half-solemn look “My Dear, I don't think that I thought of Where some past thought was clinging, much
As when one shuts a serious book Before we knew each other, I and To hear the thrushes singing.
you ; And now, why, John, your least, least Fin- | I kneel to you! Of those you were, ger-touch,
Whose kind old hearts grow mellow, – Gives me enough to think a Summer Whose fair old faces grow more fair through
As Point and Flanders yellow;
Whom some old store of garnered grief,
Crowns like a wreath of autumn leaf
With tender tints of fading.
't is gone