Canto XCVII
Risest 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 redOn yon swoll’n brook that bubbles fastBy meadows breathing of the past,And woodlands holy to the dead;
Who murmurest in the foliaged eavesA song that slights the coming care,And Autumn laying here and thereA fiery finger on the leaves;
Who wakenest with thy balmy breathTo myriads on the genial earth,Memories of bridal, or of birth,And unto myriads more, of death.
O, wheresoever those may be,Betwixt the slumber of the poles,To-day they count as kindred souls;They know me not, but mourn with me.