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