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.