Page:In memoriam (IA inmemoriam00tennrich).pdf/168



thou thus, dim dawn again, So loud with voices of the birds, So thick with lowings of the herds, Day, when I lost the flower of men;

Who tremblest thro' thy darkling red On yon swoll'n brook that bubbles fast By meadows breathing of the past, And woodlands holy to the dead;

Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves A song that slights the coming care, And Autumn laying here and there A fiery finger on the leaves;

Who wakenest with thy balmy breath To myriads on the genial earth, Memories of bridal, or of birth, And unto myriads mere, of death.