Sweet soul, do with me as thou wilt;
I lull a fancy trouble-tost
With `Love’s too precious to be lost,
A little grain shall not be spilt.’

And in that solace can I sing,
Till out of painful phases wrought
There flutters up a happy thought,
Self-balanced on a lightsome wing:

Since we deserved the name of friends,
And thine effect so lives in me,
A part of mine may live in thee
And move thee on to noble ends

The poetry improves as Tennyson abandons his grovelling and even hopes that his presence in Hallam’s memory may spur him on to noble ends. There remains an incoherence in his view of heaven/ the after-life which leaves him open to all sorts of speculation about his dear friend and what sort of life he may have. But the idea that the best of earthly experience may still inspire those risen from death is not unworthy.

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