He does not die that can bequeathe Some influence to the land he knows, Or dares, persistent, interwreathe Love permanent with the wild hedgerows; He does not die, but still remains Substantiate with his darling plains. The spring's superb adventure calls His dust athwart the woods to flame; His boundary river's secret falls Perpetuate and repeat his name. He rides his loud October sky: He does not die. He does not die. The beeches know the accustomed head Which loved them, and a peopled air Beneath their benediction spread Comforts the silence everywhere; For native ghosts return and these Perfect the mystery in the trees. So, therefore, though myself be crosst The shuddering of that dreadful day When friend and fire and home are lost, And even children drawn away -- The passer-by shall hear me still A boy that sings on Duncton Hill. |