XII Alfred Tennyson
The silvery dimness of a happy dreamI’ve known of late. Methought where Byron moans,Like some wild gulf in melancholy zones,I passed tear-blinded. Once a lurid gleamOf stormy sunset loitered on the sea,While, travelling troubled like a straitened stream,The voice of Shelley died away from me.Still sore at heart, I reached a lake-lit lea.And then the green-mossed glades with many a grove,Where lies the calm which Wordsworth used to love,And, lastly, Locksley Hall, from whence did riseA haunting song that blew and breathed and blewWith rare delights. ’Twas there I woke and knewThe sumptuous comfort left in drowsy eyes.