I wage not any feud with Death For changes wrought on form and face; No lower life that earth's embrace May breed with him, can fright my faith.
Eternal process moving on, From state to state the spirit walks; And these are but the shatter'd stalks, Or ruin'd chrysalis of one.
Nor blame I Death, because he bare The use of virtue out of earth: I know transplanted human worth Will bloom to profit, otherwhere.
For this alone on Death I wreak The wrath that garners in my heart; He put our lives so far apart We cannot hear each other speak.
Tennyson doesn't have a beef with Death for the changes that dying causes in a body's "form and face." Sure, it's kind of gross, but the speaker isn't shaken in his faith because of this gory process.
It's an "eternal process" that just happens. One thing changes into another. Something new comes from the chrysalis of something else. It's like when a caterpillar changes to a beautiful butterfly.
He's not even mad at Death because Arthur could have accomplished greater things on earth; he trusts instead that he'll accomplish these things "otherwhere," which is a nice, mystical-sounding name for the afterlife.
The only thing he's really peeved with Death about is that now he and Arthur are so far apart that they cannot communicate at all.
Notice all the imagery here that relates to things changing: "changes," "eternal process," "chrysalis," and "transplant[ing]." Change seems to be comforting to Tennyson because it suggests that something continues instead of just stopping.