Lead out the pageant: sad and slow, As fits an universal woe, Let the long, long procession go, And let the sorrowing crowd about it grow, And let the mournful martial music blow; The last great Englishman is low.
Alfred Tennyson
Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.
music
For now the poet can not die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry.
The night with sudden odour reeled; The southern stars a music pealed.
There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes.
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