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.