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;