Canto C

I climb the hill: from end to end    Of all the landscape underneath,    I find no place that does not breathe Some gracious memory of my friend;

No gray old grange, or lonely fold,    Or low morass and whispering reed,   Or simple stile from mead to mead, Or sheepwalk up the windy world;

Nor hoary knoll of ash and hew    That hears the latest linnet trill,    Nor quarry trench'd along the hill And haunted by the wrangling daw;

Nor runlet tinkling from the rock;    Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves    To left and right thro' meadowy curves, That feed the mothers of the flock;

But each has pleased a kindred eye,    And each reflects a kindlier day;    And, leaving these, to pass away, I think once more he seems to die.

-Alfred Lord Tennyson, In Memoriam A. H. H., Canto C