In Memoriam A. H. H.: 56. So careful of the type? but no

"So careful of the type?" but no.
  From scarped cliff and quarried stone
  She cries, "A thousand types are gone:
  I care for nothing, all shall go.
  "Thou makest thine appeal to me:
  I bring to life, I bring to death:
  The spirit does but mean the breath:
  I know no more." And he, shall he,
  Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair,
  Such splendid purpose in his eyes,
  Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies,
  Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,

  Who trusted God was love indeed
  And love Creation's final law--
  Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw
  With ravine, shriek'd against his creed--

  Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills,
  Who battled for the True, the Just,
  Be blown about the desert dust,
  Or seal'd within the iron hills?

  No more? A monster then, a dream,
  A discord. Dragons of the prime,
  That tare each other in their slime,
  Were mellow music match'd with him.

  O life as futile, then, as frail!
  O for thy voice to soothe and bless!
  What hope of answer, or redress?
  Behind the veil, behind the veil.

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

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Alfred Lord Tennyson

Alfred Tennyson, 1st Baron Tennyson, FRS was Poet Laureate of Great Britain and Ireland during much of Queen Victoria's reign and remains one of the most popular British poets.  more…

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"In Memoriam A. H. H.: 56. So careful of the type? but no" Poetry.net. STANDS4 LLC, 2020. Web. 11 Jul 2020. <https://www.poetry.net/poem/1017/in-memoriam-a.-h.-h.:-56.-so-careful-of-the-type?-but-no>.

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