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In Memoriam A.H.H.

         
            C.
             
      I climb the hill: 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;

      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.
       


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