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 hew
      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.

Last modified 16 February 2010