“We go, but ere we go from home,
        As down the garden-walks I move,
        Two spirits of a diverse love
    Contend for loving masterdom.

    “One whispers, ’Here thy boyhood sung
        Long since its matin song, and heard
        The low love-language of the bird
    In native hazels tassel-hung.’

    “The other answers, ’Yea, but here
        Thy feet have stray’d in after hours
        With thy lost friend among the bowers,
    And this hath made them trebly dear.’”

The poem moves on, and once again in the new home Christmas comes round.  Here everything is strange, the very bells seem like strangers’ voices.  But with this new life new strength has come, and sorrow has henceforth lost its sting.  And with the ringing of the New Year bells a new tone comes into the poem, a tone no more of despair, but of hope.

    “Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
        The flying cloud, the frosty light: 
        The year is dying in the night;
    Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

    “Ring out the old, ring in the new,
        Ring, happy bells, across the snow: 
        The year is going, let him go;
    Ring out the false, ring in the true.

    “Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
        For those that here we see no more;
        Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
    Ring in redress to all mankind.
    . . . . . . 
    “Ring in the valiant man and free,
        The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
        Ring out the darkness of the land,
    Ring in the Christ that is to be.”

After this the tone of the poem changes and the poet says—­

    “I will not shut me from my kind,
        And, lest I stiffen into stone,
        I will not eat my heart alone,
    Nor feed with sighs a passing wind: 
    . . . . . 
    “Regret is dead, but love is more
        Than in the summers that are flown,
        For I myself with these have grown
    To something greater than before.”

One more event is recorded, the wedding of the poet’s younger sister, nine years after the death of his friend.  And with this note of gladness and hope in the future the poem ends.

Time heals all things, and time healed Tennyson’s grief.  But there was another reason, of which we hardly catch a glimpse in the poem, for his return to peace and hope.  Another love had come into his life, the love of the lady who one day was to be his wife.  At first, however, it seemed a hopeless love, for in spite of his growing reputation as a poet, Tennyson was still poor, too poor to marry.  And so for fourteen years he worked and waited, at times wellnigh losing hope.  But at length the waiting was over and the wedding took place.  Tennyson amused the guests by saying that it was the nicest wedding he had ever been at.  And long afterwards with solemn thankfulness he said, speaking of his wife, “The peace of God came into my life before the altar when I wedded her.”