In Memoriam A. H. H. OBIIT MDCCCXXXIII: 99

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.