Do ye not miss him? Winds that wander,
How can ye pass him, lying yonder,
Now sigh his dirge with folded wing?
XIII.
In dearest dust that ever nourished
The violets that o’er it flourished,
He lies, your lover and your friend!
Thy softest beams, sweet sun, will kiss him;
Sweet, silent valleys, ye will miss him,
Your roses, weeping, o’er him bend.