Page:In memoriam (IA inmemoriam00tennrich).pdf/170



, I rise; 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 wold;

Nor hoary knoll of ash and haw 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;