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.