Canto XCVIII
I wake, I rise; from end to end,Of all the landscape underneathI find no place that does not breatheSome 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 hawThat 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 swervesTo 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.