LANDSCAPE AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS.
I wake, I rise; from end to end,
Of all the landscape underneath,
I find no place that doth 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 sheep-walk 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 rivulet trickling from the rock,
Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves
From left to right through 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.
Alfred Tennyson.
Thy mornings showed, thy nights concealed
The bowers where Lucy played;
And thine is, too, the last green field
That Lucy’s eyes surveyed!
W. Wordsworth, 1770–1850.