âIn Memoriam A.H.H.â 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 Tennysonâs lyrical mastery and his ability to articulate universal emotions related to mourning and hope, making âIn Memoriamâ both a personal tribute and a timeless exploration of human vulnerability.
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 seemâd my sin in me;
  What seemâd 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 throâ time to catch
The far-off interest of tears?
Let Love clasp Grief lest both be drownâd,
  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.â
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?
âThe stars,â she whispers, `blindly run;
  A web is wovân across the sky;
  From out waste places comes a cry,
And murmurs from the dying sun:
âAnd all the phantom, Nature, standsâ
  With all the music in her tone,
  A hollow echo of my own,â
A hollow form with empty hands.â
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 shouldâst fail from thy desire,
  Who scarcely darest to inquire,
âWhat is it makes me beat so low?â
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 darkenâd eyes;
  With morning wakes the will, and cries,Â
âThou shalt not be the fool of loss.â
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, Iâll wrap me oâer,
  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,â
  That `Loss is common to the raceââ
  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, wheresoeâer thou be,
  Who pledgest now thy gallant son;
  A shot, ere half thy draught be done,
Hath stillâd the life that beat from thee.
O mother, praying God will save
  Thy sailor,âwhile thy head is bowâd,
  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,â
Or `here to-morrow will he come.â
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 fatherâs chimney glows
  In expectation of a guest;
  And thinking `this will please him best,â
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 turnâd, the curse
  Had fallen, and her future Lord
  Was drownâd in passing throâ the ford,
Or killâd 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 claspâd no moreâ
  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 throâ 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 âlights 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 fosterâd 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 vanishâd 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 Arthurâs loved remains,
Spread thy full wings, and waft him oâer.
So draw him home to those that mourn
  In vain; a favourable speed
  Ruffle thy mirrorâd mast, and lead
Throâ prosperous floods his holy urn.
All night no ruder air perplex
  Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright
  As our pure love, throâ 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 widowâd 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 bringâst the sailor to his wife,
  And travellâd men from foreign lands;
  And letters unto trembling hands;
And, thy dark freight, a vanishâd 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 claspâd 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 throâ 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 throâ 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
Oâer 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?â
  And circle moaning in the air:
âIs this the end? Is this the end?â
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 thoâ they brought but merchantsâ bales,
And not the burthen that they bring.
XIV
If one should bring me this report,
  That thou hadst touchâd 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 droopâd of late,
  And he should sorrow oâer my state
And marvel what possessâd 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 whirlâd away,
The rooks are blown about the skies;
The forest crackâd, the waters curlâd,
  The cattle huddled on the lea;
  And wildly dashâd 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 falleân 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 stunnâd 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
  Compellâd 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
  Throâ circles of the bounding sky,
  Week after week: the days go by:
Come quick, thou bringest all I love.
Henceforth, wherever thou mayâst 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 widowâd race be run.
XVIII
âTis well; âtis something; we may stand
  Where he in English earth is laid,
  And from his ashes may be made
The violet of his native land.
âTis 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, evân yet, if this might be,
  I, falling on his faithful heart,
  Would breathing throâ 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 darkenâd 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 hushâd nor moved along,
  And hushâd my deepest grief of all,
  When fillâd 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,â they say, `to find
Another service such as this.â
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,
âHow good! how kind! and he is gone.â
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.â
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.â
A third is wroth: `Is this an hour
  For private sorrowâs barren song,
  When more and more the people throng
The chairs and thrones of civil power?
âA 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?â
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 stolân away.
XXII
The path by which we twain did go,
  Which led by tracts that pleased us well,
  Throâ four sweet years arose and fell,
From flower to flower, from snow to snow:
And we with singing cheerâd the way,
  And, crownâd with all the season lent,
  From April on to April went,
And glad at heart from May to May:
But where the path we walkâd began
  To slant the fifth autumnal slope,
  As we descended following Hope,
There sat the Shadow fearâd of man;
Who broke our fair companionship,
  And spread his mantle dark and cold,
  And wrapt thee formless in the fold,
And dullâd the murmur on thy lip,
And bore thee where I could not see
  Nor follow, thoâ 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 cloakâd 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
  Throâ 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 dashâd with wandering isles of night.
If all was good and fair we met,
  This earth had been the Paradise
  It never lookâd 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,âthe 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 moulderâd tree,
And towers fallân as soon as builtâ
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,
  Unfetterâd 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, whateâer befall;
  I feel it, when I sorrow most;
  âTis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.