I wake, I rise; 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;