Introduction: “In Memoriam A.H.H.” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
“In Memoriam A.H.H.” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson first appeared in 1850, published as part of a collection of elegiac verses dedicated to his dear friend Arthur Henry Hallam, who had died suddenly in 1833. This extended poem, consisting of 131 sections of four-line stanzas, explores themes of grief, faith, love, and the search for meaning in the face of personal loss. Tennyson uses this reflective journey to confront his own doubts about life and death, while addressing broader questions about human existence and spiritual resilience. The poem resonated deeply with readers, particularly in the Victorian era, who were grappling with shifting religious beliefs and scientific discoveries. Its popularity stems not only from its profound emotional depth but also from Tennyson’s lyrical mastery and his ability to articulate universal emotions related to mourning and hope, making “In Memoriam” both a personal tribute and a timeless exploration of human vulnerability.
Text: “In Memoriam A.H.H.” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Strong Son of God, immortal Love,
Whom we, that have not seen thy face,
By faith, and faith alone, embrace,
Believing where we cannot prove;
Thine are these orbs of light and shade;
Thou madest Life in man and brute;
Thou madest Death; and lo, thy foot
Is on the skull which thou hast made.
Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:
Thou madest man, he knows not why,
He thinks he was not made to die;
And thou hast made him: thou art just.
Thou seemest human and divine,
The highest, holiest manhood, thou.
Our wills are ours, we know not how;
Our wills are ours, to make them thine.
Our little systems have their day;
They have their day and cease to be:
They are but broken lights of thee,
And thou, O Lord, art more than they.
We have but faith: we cannot know;
For knowledge is of things we see
And yet we trust it comes from thee,
A beam in darkness: let it grow.
Let knowledge grow from more to more,
But more of reverence in us dwell;
That mind and soul, according well,
May make one music as before,
But vaster. We are fools and slight;
We mock thee when we do not fear:
But help thy foolish ones to bear;
Help thy vain worlds to bear thy light.
Forgive what seem’d my sin in me;
What seem’d my worth since I began;
For merit lives from man to man,
And not from man, O Lord, to thee.
Forgive my grief for one removed,
Thy creature, whom I found so fair.
I trust he lives in thee, and there
I find him worthier to be loved.
Forgive these wild and wandering cries,
Confusions of a wasted youth;
Forgive them where they fail in truth,
And in thy wisdom make me wise.
I
I held it truth, with him who sings
To one clear harp in divers tones,
That men may rise on stepping-stones
Of their dead selves to higher things.
But who shall so forecast the years
And find in loss a gain to match?
Or reach a hand thro’ time to catch
The far-off interest of tears?
Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown’d,
Let darkness keep her raven gloss:
Ah, sweeter to be drunk with loss,
To dance with death, to beat the ground,
Than that the victor Hours should scorn
The long result of love, and boast,
`Behold the man that loved and lost,
But all he was is overworn.’
II
Old Yew, which graspest at the stones
That name the under-lying dead,
Thy fibres net the dreamless head,
Thy roots are wrapt about the bones.
The seasons bring the flower again,
And bring the firstling to the flock;
And in the dusk of thee, the clock
Beats out the little lives of men.
O, not for thee the glow, the bloom,
Who changest not in any gale,
Nor branding summer suns avail
To touch thy thousand years of gloom:
And gazing on thee, sullen tree,
Sick for thy stubborn hardihood,
I seem to fail from out my blood
And grow incorporate into thee.
III
O Sorrow, cruel fellowship,
O Priestess in the vaults of Death,
O sweet and bitter in a breath,
What whispers from thy lying lip?
‘The stars,’ she whispers, `blindly run;
A web is wov’n across the sky;
From out waste places comes a cry,
And murmurs from the dying sun:
‘And all the phantom, Nature, stands—
With all the music in her tone,
A hollow echo of my own,—
A hollow form with empty hands.’
And shall I take a thing so blind,
Embrace her as my natural good;
Or crush her, like a vice of blood,
Upon the threshold of the mind?
IV
To Sleep I give my powers away;
My will is bondsman to the dark;
I sit within a helmless bark,
And with my heart I muse and say:
O heart, how fares it with thee now,
That thou should’st fail from thy desire,
Who scarcely darest to inquire,
‘What is it makes me beat so low?’
Something it is which thou hast lost,
Some pleasure from thine early years.
Break, thou deep vase of chilling tears,
That grief hath shaken into frost!
Such clouds of nameless trouble cross
All night below the darken’d eyes;
With morning wakes the will, and cries,
‘Thou shalt not be the fool of loss.’
V
I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.
But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
A use in measured language lies;
The sad mechanic exercise,
Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.
In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold:
But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more.
VI
One writes, that `Other friends remain,’
That `Loss is common to the race’—
And common is the commonplace,
And vacant chaff well meant for grain.
That loss is common would not make
My own less bitter, rather more:
Too common! Never morning wore
To evening, but some heart did break.
O father, wheresoe’er thou be,
Who pledgest now thy gallant son;
A shot, ere half thy draught be done,
Hath still’d the life that beat from thee.
O mother, praying God will save
Thy sailor,—while thy head is bow’d,
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud
Drops in his vast and wandering grave.
Ye know no more than I who wrought
At that last hour to please him well;
Who mused on all I had to tell,
And something written, something thought;
Expecting still his advent home;
And ever met him on his way
With wishes, thinking, `here to-day,’
Or `here to-morrow will he come.’
O somewhere, meek, unconscious dove,
That sittest ranging golden hair;
And glad to find thyself so fair,
Poor child, that waitest for thy love!
For now her father’s chimney glows
In expectation of a guest;
And thinking `this will please him best,’
She takes a riband or a rose;
For he will see them on to-night;
And with the thought her colour burns;
And, having left the glass, she turns
Once more to set a ringlet right;
And, even when she turn’d, the curse
Had fallen, and her future Lord
Was drown’d in passing thro’ the ford,
Or kill’d in falling from his horse.
O what to her shall be the end?
And what to me remains of good?
To her, perpetual maidenhood,
And unto me no second friend.
VII
Dark house, by which once more I stand
Here in the long unlovely street,
Doors, 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.
VIII
A happy lover who has come
To look on her that loves him well,
Who ‘lights and rings the gateway bell,
And learns her gone and far from home;
He saddens, all the magic light
Dies off at once from bower and hall,
And all the place is dark, and all
The chambers emptied of delight:
So find I every pleasant spot
In which we two were wont to meet,
The field, the chamber, and the street,
For all is dark where thou art not.
Yet as that other, wandering there
In those deserted walks, may find
A flower beat with rain and wind,
Which once she foster’d up with care;
So seems it in my deep regret,
O my forsaken heart, with thee
And this poor flower of poesy
Which little cared for fades not yet.
But since it pleased a vanish’d eye,
I go to plant it on his tomb,
That if it can it there may bloom,
Or, dying, there at least may die.
IX
Fair ship, that from the Italian shore
Sailest the placid ocean-plains
With my lost Arthur’s loved remains,
Spread thy full wings, and waft him o’er.
So draw him home to those that mourn
In vain; a favourable speed
Ruffle thy mirror’d mast, and lead
Thro’ prosperous floods his holy urn.
All night no ruder air perplex
Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright
As our pure love, thro’ early light
Shall glimmer on the dewy decks.
Sphere all your lights around, above;
Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow;
Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now,
My friend, the brother of my love;
My Arthur, whom I shall not see
Till all my widow’d race be run;
Dear as the mother to the son,
More than my brothers are to me.
X
I hear the noise about thy keel;
I hear the bell struck in the night:
I see the cabin-window bright;
I see the sailor at the wheel.
Thou bring’st the sailor to his wife,
And travell’d men from foreign lands;
And letters unto trembling hands;
And, thy dark freight, a vanish’d life.
So bring him; we have idle dreams:
This look of quiet flatters thus
Our home-bred fancies. O to us,
The fools of habit, sweeter seems
To rest beneath the clover sod,
That takes the sunshine and the rains,
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains
The chalice of the grapes of God;
Than if with thee the roaring wells
Should gulf him fathom-deep in brine;
And hands so often clasp’d in mine,
Should toss with tangle and with shells.
XI
Calm is the morn without a sound,
Calm as to suit a calmer grief,
And only thro’ the faded leaf
The chestnut pattering to the ground:
Calm and deep peace on this high world,
And on these dews that drench the furze,
And all the silvery gossamers
That twinkle into green and gold:
Calm and still light on yon great plain
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,
And crowded farms and lessening towers,
To mingle with the bounding main:
Calm and deep peace in this wide air,
These leaves that redden to the fall;
And in my heart, if calm at all,
If any calm, a calm despair:
Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,
And waves that sway themselves in rest,
And dead calm in that noble breast
Which heaves but with the heaving deep.
XII
Lo, as a dove when up she springs
To bear thro’ Heaven a tale of woe,
Some dolorous message knit below
The wild pulsation of her wings;
Like her I go; I cannot stay;
I leave this mortal ark behind,
A weight of nerves without a mind,
And leave the cliffs, and haste away
O’er ocean-mirrors rounded large,
And reach the glow of southern skies,
And see the sails at distance rise,
And linger weeping on the marge,
And saying; `Comes he thus, my friend?
Is this the end of all my care?’
And circle moaning in the air:
‘Is this the end? Is this the end?’
And forward dart again, and play
About the prow, and back return
To where the body sits, and learn
That I have been an hour away.
XIII
Tears of the widower, when he sees
A late-lost form that sleep reveals,
And moves his doubtful arms, and feels
Her place is empty, fall like these;
Which weep a loss for ever new,
A void where heart on heart reposed;
And, where warm hands have prest and closed,
Silence, till I be silent too.
Which weep the comrade of my choice,
An awful thought, a life removed,
The human-hearted man I loved,
A Spirit, not a breathing voice.
Come, Time, and teach me, many years,
I do not suffer in a dream;
For now so strange do these things seem,
Mine eyes have leisure for their tears;
My fancies time to rise on wing,
And glance about the approaching sails,
As tho’ they brought but merchants’ bales,
And not the burthen that they bring.
XIV
If one should bring me this report,
That thou hadst touch’d the land to-day,
And I went down unto the quay,
And found thee lying in the port;
And standing, muffled round with woe,
Should see thy passengers in rank
Come stepping lightly down the plank,
And beckoning unto those they know;
And if along with these should come
The man I held as half-divine;
Should strike a sudden hand in mine,
And ask a thousand things of home;
And I should tell him all my pain,
And how my life had droop’d of late,
And he should sorrow o’er my state
And marvel what possess’d my brain;
And I perceived no touch of change,
No hint of death in all his frame,
But found him all in all the same,
I should not feel it to be strange.
XV
To-night the winds begin to rise
And roar from yonder dropping day:
The last red leaf is whirl’d away,
The rooks are blown about the skies;
The forest crack’d, the waters curl’d,
The cattle huddled on the lea;
And wildly dash’d on tower and tree
The sunbeam strikes along the world:
And but for fancies, which aver
That all thy motions gently pass
Athwart a plane of molten glass,
I scarce could brook the strain and stir
That makes the barren branches loud;
And but for fear it is not so,
The wild unrest that lives in woe
Would dote and pore on yonder cloud
That rises upward always higher,
And onward drags a labouring breast,
And topples round the dreary west,
A looming bastion fringed with fire.
XVI
What words are these have falle’n from me?
Can calm despair and wild unrest
Be tenants of a single breast,
Or sorrow such a changeling be?
Or cloth she only seem to take
The touch of change in calm or storm;
But knows no more of transient form
In her deep self, than some dead lake
That holds the shadow of a lark
Hung in the shadow of a heaven?
Or has the shock, so harshly given,
Confused me like the unhappy bark
That strikes by night a craggy shelf,
And staggers blindly ere she sink?
And stunn’d me from my power to think
And all my knowledge of myself;
And made me that delirious man
Whose fancy fuses old and new,
And flashes into false and true,
And mingles all without a plan?
XVII
Thou comest, much wept for: such a breeze
Compell’d thy canvas, and my prayer
Was as the whisper of an air
To breathe thee over lonely seas.
For I in spirit saw thee move
Thro’ circles of the bounding sky,
Week after week: the days go by:
Come quick, thou bringest all I love.
Henceforth, wherever thou may’st roam,
My blessing, like a line of light,
Is on the waters day and night,
And like a beacon guards thee home.
So may whatever tempest mars
Mid-ocean, spare thee, sacred bark;
And balmy drops in summer dark
Slide from the bosom of the stars.
So kind an office hath been done,
Such precious relics brought by thee;
The dust of him I shall not see
Till all my widow’d race be run.
XVIII
‘Tis well; ’tis something; we may stand
Where he in English earth is laid,
And from his ashes may be made
The violet of his native land.
‘Tis little; but it looks in truth
As if the quiet bones were blest
Among familiar names to rest
And in the places of his youth.
Come then, pure hands, and bear the head
That sleeps or wears the mask of sleep,
And come, whatever loves to weep,
And hear the ritual of the dead.
Ah yet, ev’n yet, if this might be,
I, falling on his faithful heart,
Would breathing thro’ his lips impart
The life that almost dies in me;
That dies not, but endures with pain,
And slowly forms the firmer mind,
Treasuring the look it cannot find,
The words that are not heard again.
XIX
The Danube to the Severn gave
The darken’d heart that beat no more;
They laid him by the pleasant shore,
And in the hearing of the wave.
There twice a day the Severn fills;
The salt sea-water passes by,
And hushes half the babbling Wye,
And makes a silence in the hills.
The Wye is hush’d nor moved along,
And hush’d my deepest grief of all,
When fill’d with tears that cannot fall,
I brim with sorrow drowning song.
The tide flows down, the wave again
Is vocal in its wooded walls;
My deeper anguish also falls,
And I can speak a little then.
XX
The lesser griefs that may be said,
That breathe a thousand tender vows,
Are but as servants in a house
Where lies the master newly dead;
Who speak their feeling as it is,
And weep the fulness from the mind:
`It will be hard,’ they say, `to find
Another service such as this.’
My lighter moods are like to these,
That out of words a comfort win;
But there are other griefs within,
And tears that at their fountain freeze;
For by the hearth the children sit
Cold in that atmosphere of Death,
And scarce endure to draw the breath,
Or like to noiseless phantoms flit;
But open converse is there none,
So much the vital spirits sink
To see the vacant chair, and think,
‘How good! how kind! and he is gone.’
XXI
I sing to him that rests below,
And, since the grasses round me wave,
I take the grasses of the grave,
And make them pipes whereon to blow.
The traveller hears me now and then,
And sometimes harshly will he speak:
`This fellow would make weakness weak,
And melt the waxen hearts of men.’
Another answers, `Let him be,
He loves to make parade of pain
That with his piping he may gain
The praise that comes to constancy.’
A third is wroth: `Is this an hour
For private sorrow’s barren song,
When more and more the people throng
The chairs and thrones of civil power?
‘A time to sicken and to swoon,
When Science reaches forth her arms
To feel from world to world, and charms
Her secret from the latest moon?’
Behold, ye speak an idle thing:
Ye never knew the sacred dust:
I do but sing because I must,
And pipe but as the linnets sing:
And one is glad; her note is gay,
For now her little ones have ranged;
And one is sad; her note is changed,
Because her brood is stol’n away.
XXII
The path by which we twain did go,
Which led by tracts that pleased us well,
Thro’ four sweet years arose and fell,
From flower to flower, from snow to snow:
And we with singing cheer’d the way,
And, crown’d with all the season lent,
From April on to April went,
And glad at heart from May to May:
But where the path we walk’d began
To slant the fifth autumnal slope,
As we descended following Hope,
There sat the Shadow fear’d of man;
Who broke our fair companionship,
And spread his mantle dark and cold,
And wrapt thee formless in the fold,
And dull’d the murmur on thy lip,
And bore thee where I could not see
Nor follow, tho’ I walk in haste,
And think, that somewhere in the waste
The Shadow sits and waits for me.
XXIII
Now, sometimes in my sorrow shut,
Or breaking into song by fits,
Alone, alone, to where he sits,
The Shadow cloak’d from head to foot,
Who keeps the keys of all the creeds,
I wander, often falling lame,
And looking back to whence I came,
Or on to where the pathway leads;
And crying, How changed from where it ran
Thro’ lands where not a leaf was dumb;
But all the lavish hills would hum
The murmur of a happy Pan:
When each by turns was guide to each,
And Fancy light from Fancy caught,
And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought
Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech;
And all we met was fair and good,
And all was good that Time could bring,
And all the secret of the Spring
Moved in the chambers of the blood;
And many an old philosophy
On Argive heights divinely sang,
And round us all the thicket rang
To many a flute of Arcady.
XXIV
And was the day of my delight
As pure and perfect as I say?
The very source and fount of Day
Is dash’d with wandering isles of night.
If all was good and fair we met,
This earth had been the Paradise
It never look’d to human eyes
Since our first Sun arose and set.
And is it that the haze of grief
Makes former gladness loom so great?
The lowness of the present state,
That sets the past in this relief?
Or that the past will always win
A glory from its being far;
And orb into the perfect star
We saw not, when we moved therein?
XXV
I know that this was Life,—the track
Whereon with equal feet we fared;
And then, as now, the day prepared
The daily burden for the back.
But this it was that made me move
As light as carrier-birds in air;
I loved the weight I had to bear,
Because it needed help of Love:
Nor could I weary, heart or limb,
When mighty Love would cleave in twain
The lading of a single pain,
And part it, giving half to him.
XXVI
Still onward winds the dreary way;
I with it; for I long to prove
No lapse of moons can canker Love,
Whatever fickle tongues may say.
And if that eye which watches guilt
And goodness, and hath power to see
Within the green the moulder’d tree,
And towers fall’n as soon as built—
Oh, if indeed that eye foresee
Or see (in Him is no before)
In more of life true life no more
And Love the indifference to be,
Then might I find, ere yet the morn
Breaks hither over Indian seas,
That Shadow waiting with the keys,
To shroud me from my proper scorn.
XXVII
I envy not in any moods
The captive void of noble rage,
The linnet born within the cage,
That never knew the summer woods:
I envy not the beast that takes
His license in the field of time,
Unfetter’d by the sense of crime,
To whom a conscience never wakes;
Nor, what may count itself as blest,
The heart that never plighted troth
But stagnates in the weeds of sloth;
Nor any want-begotten rest.
I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
‘Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.
Annotations: “In Memoriam A.H.H.” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Stanza | Summary |
I | Explores the theme of faith amidst uncertainty, highlighting belief in divine presence and creation. Man is called to trust in God despite the inability to fully comprehend Him. |
II | Reflects on the cycle of life and death, contrasting the timeless nature of the yew tree with the transient lives of men. The yew becomes a symbol of endurance and continuity amid mortality. |
III | Confronts the duality of nature, described as both beautiful and cruel, which mirrors human sorrow and joy. The poet questions if embracing nature’s darker side is a wise choice. |
IV | Describes surrender to sleep as a form of escape from grief, where the heart longs for answers but is left in solitude and loss, mourning what is irrevocably gone. |
V | Discusses the limits of language to express grief, noting how words only partially reveal the depth of sorrow and that such expression can numb pain temporarily. |
VI | Reflects on the unhelpful platitudes offered by others, underscoring that while loss is universal, each experience of grief is deeply personal and cannot be soothed by generalizations. |
VII | The speaker returns to the house of his friend, feeling an acute absence. The empty doorway becomes a powerful symbol of loss, as familiar spaces now feel desolate. |
VIII | Compares a lover returning to find his beloved gone to the speaker’s own sense of emptiness when revisiting places he shared with his lost friend. The joy of past memories now darkens. |
IX | Envisions Arthur’s return to England, asking the ship to bear his remains gently, preserving his memory in the voyage. The sea journey symbolizes the path of mourning. |
X | Ponders the duality of the ship, which brings joy to others but carries sorrow for the speaker, as it brings his friend’s lifeless body back. The vessel becomes a symbol of finality. |
XI | Finds a strange sense of peace in the calm morning, aligning the external world’s stillness with his internal despair, feeling a kinship with nature’s quiet grief. |
XII | Imagines himself as a bird flying towards Arthur’s ship, showing a strong desire to reconnect with him. The speaker’s restless spirit mirrors his unsettled grief. |
XIII | Describes grief as a haunting presence, like a widow mourning forever, recognizing that the sense of loss is eternal and profound, impossible to fully overcome. |
XIV | Imagines an impossible reunion with Arthur, highlighting the depth of his yearning and the pain of realizing that such reunions are only dreams. |
XV | Observes the shifting seasons and turbulent winds, mirroring the internal turmoil of grief and the desire for peace amidst the raging emotions of loss. |
XVI | Examines the strange coexistence of calm and despair within, comparing it to a lake that holds reflections of life but remains unmoved by them. |
XVII | Prays for Arthur’s safe return across the seas, symbolizing the speaker’s enduring love and hope that, despite death, Arthur’s spirit remains protected. |
XVIII | Finds solace in knowing Arthur rests in his homeland, where he can be remembered and cherished among familiar places and people. |
XIX | Describes Arthur’s burial near the Severn, connecting the natural ebb and flow of the river to the speaker’s fluctuating emotions, which mirror the rhythm of grief. |
XX | Notes how smaller griefs can be shared with others, but the deeper, frozen sorrow remains a private, isolating experience that words cannot touch. |
XXI | Justifies his continued mourning in song despite criticism, asserting that his grief is an intrinsic need, much like a bird that sings because it must. |
XXII | Recalls happy memories with Arthur, underscoring the shared companionship that once gave life its meaning and the painful void left in its absence. |
XXIII | Wanders mentally, reflecting on the simplicity of his joyful past with Arthur, contrasting it with the complex sorrow that now consumes him. |
XXIV | Questions if grief romanticizes the past, pondering whether the memories seem brighter because of the darkness of the present sorrow. |
XXV | Reflects on how love made burdens bearable in the past, suggesting that mutual support lightened life’s weight, which now feels heavier in Arthur’s absence. |
XXVI | Asserts that love endures beyond time and death, pushing back against the cynicism that denies lasting connections, despite the loss. |
XXVII | Concludes with the famous line, “‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all,” affirming the transformative power of love, even amid loss. |
Literary And Poetic Devices: “In Memoriam A.H.H.” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Device | Example | Explanation |
Alliteration | “Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face ” (Stanza I) | Repetition of the initial “s” and “w” sounds creates a musical quality, emphasizing the contrasting emotions of calm and unrest. |
Allusion | “Strong Son of God, immortal Love” (Stanza I) | Refers to Jesus Christ as the “Son of God,” connecting the poem’s themes to Christian beliefs about life, death, and resurrection. |
Apostrophe | “O Sorrow, cruel fellowship” (Stanza III) | Directly addresses abstract concepts like “Sorrow,” personifying them and emphasizing the poet’s personal interaction with grief. |
Assonance | “One writes, that ‘Other friends remain,'” (Stanza VI) | Repetition of the “i” sound in “writes” and “remain” creates internal rhyme, enhancing the line’s rhythm and solemnity. |
Caesura | “I hold it true, whate’er befall;” (Stanza XXVII) | A pause in the middle of the line emphasizes the speaker’s firm belief in the value of love despite loss. |
Consonance | “Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drown’d” (Stanza I) | Repetition of the “l” and “d” sounds at the start and end of words creates harmony and enhances the line’s mournful tone. |
End Rhyme | “to one clear harp in divers tones, / Of their dead selves to higher things.” (Stanza I) | The rhyme of “tones” and “things” creates closure and musicality, typical of the ABBA rhyme scheme used throughout the poem. |
Enjambment | “The far-off interest of tears?” (Stanza I) | The thought spills over from one line to the next, maintaining flow and reflecting the continuity of grief and questioning. |
Epiphora | “And thou hast made him: thou art just.” (Stanza I) | Repetition of “thou” at the end of phrases emphasizes God’s control over creation and judgment. |
Imagery | “Old Yew, which graspest at the stones” (Stanza II) | Vivid description of the yew tree as it wraps around tombstones, evoking visuals of death and nature’s persistence. |
Irony | “Too common! Never morning wore / To evening, but some heart did break.” (Stanza VI) | Though grief is universal, it feels intensely personal; the “common” experience of loss is ironically isolating for the speaker. |
Juxtaposition | “Calm despair and wild unrest” (Stanza XVI) | Contrasts “calm” with “wild unrest” to highlight the inner conflict and paradoxical nature of mourning. |
Metaphor | “a hollow form with empty hands” (Stanza III) | Nature is described as a “hollow form,” symbolizing the emptiness and lack of meaning the poet feels in grief. |
Oxymoron | “calm despair” (Stanza XVI) | Combines opposing ideas to express the complexity of the poet’s emotions, finding calm within sorrow. |
Personification | “Thy fibres net the dreamless head” (Stanza II) | The yew tree is given human-like qualities, as its “fibres” encircle the dead, suggesting a connection between life and death. |
Refrain | “Tears, idle tears” (appears in other works too) | Although not as common in In Memoriam, Tennyson often returns to similar phrases, underscoring the recurrence of grief and sorrow. |
Rhetorical Question | “Or reach a hand thro’ time to catch / The far-off interest of tears?” (Stanza I) | Asks a question to provoke thought and highlight the uncertainty of future comfort or meaning in grief. |
Simile | “Like dull narcotics, numbing pain” (Stanza V) | Compares the act of writing about grief to a narcotic, emphasizing how expression dulls but does not resolve pain. |
Symbolism | “Dark house” (Stanza VII) | Represents the emptiness left after Arthur’s death, with the “dark house” symbolizing both the physical and emotional void. |
Synecdoche | “O Father, wheresoe’er thou be” (Stanza VI) | Uses “Father” to represent all parents mourning lost children, universalizing the theme of parental grief. |
Themes: “In Memoriam A.H.H.” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
- Grief and Mourning: The overwhelming sorrow of losing his friend Arthur Henry Hallam permeates the entire poem, with Tennyson delving deeply into the complex and enduring nature of grief. In Stanza VII, he returns to the “dark house” where Hallam once lived, symbolizing the void left by his absence and evoking a haunting sense of loss: “Behold me, for I cannot sleep, / And like a guilty thing I creep.” The persistent emptiness and longing for his friend reflect Tennyson’s inability to find closure, highlighting how grief lingers and shapes one’s existence.
- Faith and Doubt: Tennyson grapples with faith and the role of divine power in life and death, often questioning the justice and purpose of human suffering. In the opening lines, he addresses God as “Strong Son of God, immortal Love,” admitting that people must “By faith, and faith alone, embrace, / Believing where we cannot prove.” This sentiment captures his struggle between trusting in a higher purpose and wrestling with doubt, especially in light of personal loss. The poem reflects Victorian concerns with reconciling traditional religious beliefs with the uncertainties of a changing world.
- Love and Friendship: The profound bond between Tennyson and Hallam is at the heart of In Memoriam, celebrating the transformative power of friendship and love. Tennyson finds solace and meaning in the memory of Hallam, expressing that love endures beyond death. In Stanza XXVII, he famously concludes, “‘Tis better to have loved and lost / Than never to have loved at all,” suggesting that the emotional growth and resilience gained from love are worth the pain of loss. This enduring connection with Hallam becomes both a source of strength and an idealized memory.
- The Nature of Knowledge and Progress: Tennyson often contemplates the limitations of human knowledge and the balance between intellectual growth and spiritual reverence. In Stanza LIV, he urges, “Let knowledge grow from more to more, / But more of reverence in us dwell,” recognizing the importance of scientific and intellectual progress but warning against losing sight of spirituality and humility. This theme echoes Victorian anxieties about the potential moral consequences of rapid advancements in science, suggesting that wisdom must be tempered with a deeper respect for life’s mysteries.
Literary Theories and “In Memoriam A.H.H.” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Literary Theory | Explanation | References from the Poem |
Psychoanalytic Theory | Psychoanalytic theory, particularly Freudian ideas, analyzes Tennyson’s mourning process, focusing on his internal struggle with grief and loss. Tennyson’s grief can be seen as a journey through Freudian stages of mourning and melancholia, with lingering feelings of despair and the struggle to detach from Hallam’s memory. | In Stanza VII, Tennyson reflects on his sorrow by revisiting the “dark house” of his friend’s absence: “Behold me, for I cannot sleep, / And like a guilty thing I creep.” This haunting return to loss suggests an unresolved attachment to Hallam, reflecting the psychological impact of bereavement. |
Religious and Theological Criticism | This approach examines Tennyson’s exploration of faith, doubt, and the afterlife, which are prominent in the poem. He confronts questions of divine justice, the existence of God, and human suffering, reflecting Victorian anxieties about religion. Tennyson’s struggle with faith and hope amid despair resonates with the theological debates of his time, particularly the conflict between science and faith. | Tennyson’s address to God in Stanza I, “Strong Son of God, immortal Love… / Believing where we cannot prove,” underscores his ambivalence about belief without proof. This sentiment, echoed throughout, reflects his search for spiritual consolation amidst doubt and sorrow. |
Romanticism | Rooted in Romantic ideals, this approach highlights Tennyson’s focus on intense emotion, individual experience, and nature’s symbolism in the face of mortality. Like the Romantics, Tennyson views personal grief as a means to connect with broader existential questions, valuing subjective experience as a source of insight and wisdom. | In Stanza XVI, he combines contrasting emotions, “calm despair and wild unrest,” to portray the depth of his sorrow. His introspective journey through grief reflects Romantic ideals of finding universal truth in personal experience, nature, and introspection. |
Critical Questions about “In Memoriam A.H.H.” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
- How does Tennyson reconcile faith and doubt in the face of personal tragedy?
- Throughout “In Memoriam,” Tennyson grapples with profound questions of faith, especially concerning life, death, and the possibility of an afterlife. His dedication to God is clear from the opening lines, “Strong Son of God, immortal Love,” where he admits, “Believing where we cannot prove” (Stanza I). Yet, as he continues, his belief wavers, and he finds himself in moments of despair, unable to fully accept the loss of his friend Hallam as part of a divine plan. The poet’s oscillation between devotion and skepticism captures a struggle that reflects the larger Victorian crisis of faith, as scientific discoveries began to challenge traditional religious beliefs. Does Tennyson find solace in his faith, or is he left with more unanswered questions?
- What role does nature play in shaping Tennyson’s experience of grief and mourning?
- Nature is a pervasive and complex presence in “In Memoriam,” symbolizing both the constancy of life cycles and the indifferent passage of time. In Stanza II, Tennyson meditates on the yew tree, which “graspest at the stones” that mark graves, showing how nature intertwines with death. The poet’s ambivalence toward nature’s beauty and cruelty becomes a reflection of his own emotional turmoil—he sees it as a reminder of life’s continuity but also of his own mortality. Through this lens, Tennyson appears to wrestle with whether nature offers comfort in its timelessness or simply indifference to human suffering, leaving the reader to question whether he finds any true solace in the natural world.
- How does Tennyson portray the impact of loss on personal identity and self-perception?
- The loss of Hallam profoundly alters Tennyson’s sense of self, leaving him to navigate his identity in the absence of his closest companion. Stanza VII poignantly illustrates this as he returns to the “dark house” where Hallam once lived, confessing, “Behold me, for I cannot sleep, / And like a guilty thing I creep.” Here, Tennyson’s grief manifests as both physical and emotional displacement, where he feels like a stranger in familiar spaces. This sense of estrangement extends inward as he questions his purpose and ability to move forward. Does Tennyson ultimately discover a new sense of self through his mourning, or does he remain overshadowed by his loss?
- In what ways does Tennyson explore the theme of love’s endurance beyond death?
- Tennyson reflects on the endurance of love throughout “In Memoriam,” considering it a force that transcends even the boundaries of death. He famously asserts, “‘Tis better to have loved and lost / Than never to have loved at all” (Stanza XXVII), suggesting that love’s worth is not diminished by loss. This enduring love is evident as Tennyson continues to converse with Hallam’s memory and imagine his presence, maintaining a spiritual connection despite Hallam’s physical absence. The poem leaves readers to ponder whether Tennyson’s love ultimately provides him with comfort or if it serves to deepen his sorrow, as he remains bound to a friend who can never return.
Literary Works Similar to “In Memoriam A.H.H.” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
- “Adonais” by Percy Bysshe Shelley
Like In Memoriam, this elegy mourns the death of a close friend, poet John Keats, and grapples with themes of immortality and nature’s role in human loss. - “Lycidas” by John Milton
Milton’s pastoral elegy reflects on the untimely death of a friend, incorporating nature and divine justice, much like Tennyson’s meditation on fate and faith. - “When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom’d” by Walt Whitman
Written in memory of Abraham Lincoln, this elegy shares Tennyson’s themes of national and personal mourning, as well as the cyclical symbolism of nature. - “Thyrsis” by Matthew Arnold
In this pastoral elegy, Arnold laments the loss of his friend Arthur Hugh Clough, expressing a similar sense of deep, personal sorrow and searching for meaning. - “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard” by Thomas Gray
Gray’s elegy contemplates death and memory in a rural setting, resonating with Tennyson’s exploration of life, loss, and the desire for remembrance beyond the grave.
Representative Quotations of “In Memoriam A.H.H.” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Quotation | Context | Theoretical Perspective |
“‘Tis better to have loved and lost / Than never to have loved at all.” (Stanza XXVII) | Tennyson reflects on the value of love, asserting that the experience of deep affection outweighs the pain of loss. | Romanticism – Highlights the Romantic belief in the transformative power of love and emotional experience. |
“Strong Son of God, immortal Love, / Whom we, that have not seen thy face…” (Stanza I) | Opens the poem with a reverent address to God, revealing Tennyson’s struggle between faith and doubt. | Religious and Theological Criticism – Examines the poet’s need for faith amidst spiritual uncertainty. |
“Let knowledge grow from more to more, / But more of reverence in us dwell.” (Stanza LIV) | Tennyson calls for a balance between intellectual progress and spiritual reverence. | Victorian Skepticism – Reflects Victorian anxieties over scientific advancement potentially eroding faith. |
“Behold me, for I cannot sleep, / And like a guilty thing I creep.” (Stanza VII) | Tennyson describes returning to his friend’s house, now empty, embodying his overwhelming sense of loss. | Psychoanalytic Theory – Reveals the depth of Tennyson’s unresolved grief and lingering attachment to Hallam. |
“I sometimes hold it half a sin / To put in words the grief I feel.” (Stanza V) | Expresses Tennyson’s reluctance to articulate his grief, viewing words as inadequate for deep sorrow. | Expressivist Theory – Examines the limitations of language to capture intense emotions authentically. |
“Our little systems have their day; / They have their day and cease to be.” (Stanza I) | Comments on the transient nature of human beliefs and institutions. | Structuralism – Highlights human constructs as fleeting and imperfect representations of divine truth. |
“And thou hast made him: thou art just.” (Stanza I) | Despite his grief, Tennyson acknowledges God’s justice in creating life and death. | Religious and Theological Criticism – Reflects an attempt to reconcile divine justice with personal suffering. |
“The path by which we twain did go, / Which led by tracts that pleased us well…” (Stanza XXII) | Remembers the joyful memories shared with Hallam, contrasting them with present sorrow. | Nostalgia Theory – Examines how memory romanticizes the past, intensifying grief by highlighting its loss. |
“And all the phantom, Nature, stands— / A hollow echo of my own.” (Stanza III) | Tennyson portrays nature as a reflection of his inner emptiness, finding no solace in its beauty. | Ecocriticism – Considers nature as a mirror of human emotions, symbolizing alienation rather than comfort. |
“Forgive these wild and wandering cries, / Confusions of a wasted youth.” (Stanza L) | Tennyson asks forgiveness for the despair expressed in his mourning, suggesting a feeling of guilt. | Moral Criticism – Indicates self-reproach for his perceived weakness, highlighting Victorian ideals of stoicism. |
Suggested Readings: “In Memoriam A.H.H.” by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
- Rosenberg, John D. “Stopping for Death: Tennyson’s ‘In Memoriam.'” Victorian Poetry, vol. 30, no. 3/4, 1992, pp. 291–330. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/40002470. Accessed 5 Nov. 2024.
- Hsiao, Irene. “Calculating Loss in Tennyson’s in Memoriam.” Victorian Poetry, vol. 47, no. 1, 2009, pp. 173–96. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/40347430. Accessed 5 Nov. 2024.
- Wright, Jane. “Appreciating Memorialization: In Memoriam, A. H. H.” Tennyson Research Bulletin, vol. 9, no. 1, 2007, pp. 77–95. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/45288551. Accessed 5 Nov. 2024.
- Hackenbracht, Ryan. “Shapes of Things to Come: Milton, Evolution, and the Afterlife of Species in Tennyson’s In Memoriam, A. H. H.” Milton’s Moving Bodies, edited by Marissa Greenberg and Rachel Trubowitz, Northwestern University Press, 2024, pp. 181–212. JSTOR, https://doi.org/10.2307/jj.18654577.14. Accessed 5 Nov. 2024.
- Gray, Erik. “The Title of ‘In Memoriam.'” Tennyson Research Bulletin, vol. 9, no. 3, 2009, pp. 248–50. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/45288794. Accessed 5 Nov. 2024.
- Ricks, Christopher. “The Title of ‘In Memoriam’: A Few Further Considerations.” Tennyson Research Bulletin, vol. 9, no. 4, 2010, pp. 376–77. JSTOR, http://www.jstor.org/stable/45288030. Accessed 5 Nov. 2024.