Talking of Tennyson: Transience

5 11 2018
So runs my dream: but what am I?
An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.
(In Memorian A.H.H., 54)
And so I walk across the sites
Of past and present intertwined,
Caleidoscope of shapes and lines,
These labyrinths of shade and light.
These labyrinths of day and night,
These human passions carved in stone,
They laught at you before they´re gone
And burst and burn as they collide.
They burst and perish – ask not, why.
Scattered across the shingles ashore,
One may not ask nor hope for more.
Nor will, nor soul, nor mind survive.
The Sense is conceal´d. Behind the veil –
And what am I to disobey:
All of them, all, who dreamt and prayed,
They all have passed! And so will we…