In Memoriam A. H. H.: 99

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Risest thou thus, dim dawn, again,
 So loud with voices of the birds,
  So thick with lowings of the herds,
Day, when I lost the flower of men;
Who tremblest thro' thy darkling red
 On yon swoll'n brook that bubbles fast
 By meadows breathing of the past,
And woodlands holy to the dead;
Who murmurest in the foliaged eaves
  A song that slights the coming care,
  And Autumn laying here and there
A fiery finger on the leaves;

Who wakenest with thy balmy breath
  To myriads on the genial earth,
  Memories of bridal, or of birth,
And unto myriads more, of death.

O wheresoever those may be,
  Betwixt the slumber of the poles,
  To-day they count as kindred souls;
They know me not, but mourn with me.

© Alfred Tennyson