When the blood creeps, and the nerves prick
And tingle; and the heart is sick,
And all the wheels of Being slow.
near me when the sensuous frame
Is rack’d with pangs that conquer trust;
And Time, a maniac scattering dust,
And Life, a Fury slinging flame.
near me when my faith is dry,
And men the flies of latter spring,
That lay their eggs, and sting and sing
And weave their petty cells and die.
To point the term of human strife,
And on the low dark verge of life
The twilight of eternal day.
Poem by: Alfred Lord Tennyson - In memoriam -