31 May, 1891
Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,
Tears from the depth of some divine despair
Rise from the heart, and gather to the eyes,
In looking on the happy autumn-fields,
And thinking of the days that are no more.
Same poet, different poem. This one's called The Princess. Maybe I should put this book away and try a different one. Maybe Alfred Lord Tennyson just writes poems for people who are miserable. I don't think choosing another poet would make much difference, though. I think I'd probably feel it no matter what I'm reading. Mondays are especially hard, because there's this empty space after dinner where I used to go see you and now there's nothing to distract me from remembering it.
Dear as remembered kisses after death,
And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
On lips that are for others; deep as love,
Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
O Death in Life, the days that are no more!
Same poem, a few stanzas later. I'm not in love with you, or anything. I just like some of those lines. Deep as remembered kisses on lips that are for others; wild with all regret. I wonder if you feel that way, too. I keep thinking about the look on your face after I kissed you for the last time, before you told me to go. It surprised me then and I still don't know what to think of it. Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean.
Set by Lady!