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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341675" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>In Memoriam A. H. H.: 56. So careful of the type? but no</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">"So careful of the type?" but no.<br> From scarped cliff and quarried stone<br> She cries, "A thousand types are gone:<br> I care for nothing, all shall go.<br> "Thou makest thine appeal to me:<br> I bring to life, I bring to death:<br> The spirit does but mean the breath:<br> I know no more." And he, shall he,<br> Man, her last work, who seem'd so fair,<br> Such splendid purpose in his eyes,<br> Who roll'd the psalm to wintry skies,<br> Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Who trusted God was love indeed<br> And love Creation's final law--<br> Tho' Nature, red in tooth and claw<br> With ravine, shriek'd against his creed--</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Who loved, who suffer'd countless ills,<br> Who battled for the True, the Just,<br> Be blown about the desert dust,<br> Or seal'd within the iron hills?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> No more? A monster then, a dream,<br> A discord. Dragons of the prime,<br> That tare each other in their slime,<br> Were mellow music match'd with him.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> O life as futile, then, as frail!<br> O for thy voice to soothe and bless!<br> What hope of answer, or redress?<br> Behind the veil, behind the veil.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Alfred+Lord+Tennyson">Alfred Lord Tennyson</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=341675" data-title="In Memoriam A. H. H.: 56. So careful of the type? but no de Alfred Lord Tennyson" data-description=""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 spir..."></div> </div> </div>
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