tears, idle tears, i know not what they mean,
tears from the depth of some divine despair
rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,
in looking on the happy autumn fields,
and thinking of the days that are no more.
fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,
that brings our friends up from the underworld,
sad as the last which reddens over one
that sinks with all we love below the verge;
so sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.
alfred, lord tennyson.