Haunted it is by happy, happy days,
But haunted by the darkest day of all.
The earliest sunbeams from the east that fall
Write one name only with their golden rays.
Her love the silent saffron curtains praise,
Her name is prinked in pattern on the wall,
‘Alice’ the pictures from their places call,
‘Alice’ the hearth-tongues crackle as they blaze.
The books from off the shelves are strangely moved,
Or opened lie as if a spirit read,
Her laughter rings, her silent voice is heard,
We join again in argument she loved—
The lamp burns low—the fire must needs be
How cold, how dark the room—for she is dead!
(Valete: Tennyson and other Memorial Poems, p. 161)