Page:In memoriam (IA inmemoriam00tennrich).pdf/109

 Yet feels, as in a pensive dream, When all his active powers are still, A distant dearness in the hill, A secret sweetness in the stream,

The limit of his narrower fate, While yet beside its vocal springs He played at counsellors and kings, With one that was his earliest mate;

Who ploughs with pain his native lea And reaps the labour of his hands, Or in the furrow musing stands; 'Does my old friend remember me?'