Fainting Soul



O love, they die in you rich sky,
    They faint on hill or field or river;
Our echoes roll from soul to soul,
    And grow for ever and for ever.
Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,
And answer, echoes, answer, dying, dying, dying.

-Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892),
The Splendor Falls







images © 2000 by Randy Wang
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