Verse > Anthologies > James and Mary Ford, eds. > Every Day in the Year
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James and Mary Ford, eds.  Every Day in the Year.  1902.
 
October 12
Tennyson
By Thomas Henry Huxley (1825–1895)
 
(Westminster Abbey: October 12, 1892)
(The Minister speaks)

BRING me my dead!
To me that have grown,
Stone laid upon stone,
As the stormy brood
Of English blood        5
Has wax’d and spread
And fill’d the world,
With sails unfurl’d;
With men that may not lie;
With thoughts that cannot die.        10
 
Bring me my dead!
Into the storied hall,
Where I have garner’d all
My harvest without weed;
My chosen fruits of goodly seed,        15
And lay him gently down among
The men of state, the men of song:
The men that would not suffer wrong:
The thought-worn chieftains of the mind:
Head-servants of the human kind.        20
 
Bring me my dead!
The autumn sun shall shed
Its beams athwart the bier’s
Heap’d blooms: a many tears
Shall flow; his words, in cadence sweet and strong,        25
Shall voice the full hearts of the silent throng.
Bring me my dead!
 
And oh! sad wedded mourner, seeking still
For vanish’d hand clasp: drinking in thy fill
Of holy grief; forgive, that pious theft        30
Robs thee of all, save memories, left:
Not thine to kneel beside the grassy mound
While dies the western glow: and all around
Is silence; and the shadows closer creep
And whisper softly: All must fall asleep.        35
 
 
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