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.
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