Is it, then, regret for buried time
That keenlier in sweet April wakes,
And meets the year, and gives and takes
The colours of the crescent prime?
Not all: the songs, the stirring air,
The life re-orient out of dust
Cry thro’ the sense to hearten trust
In that which made the world so fair.
Not all regret: the face will shine
Upon me, while I muse alone;
And that dear voice, I once have known,
Still speak to me of me and mine:
Yet less of sorrow lives in me
For days of happy commune dead;
Less yearning for the friendship fled,
Than some strong bond which is to be.
Regret, his grieving for Hallam, is not, he says, the only element in his new aliveness. Another is faith in a creator of nature; and yet another, the expectation that his relationship with the dead Hallam will itself change into a new, strong bond.
Like many bereaved people, I eventually came to the discovery that grieving was also an opportunity – the only one- for a new relationship with my daughter, which I am still exploring.