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Dion Crawley Cory Hardison William Crider ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Remembrance I climb the hill: from end to end Of all the landscape underneath, I find no place that does 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 sleepwalk up the windy world; Nor hoary knoll of ash and hew That hears the latest linnet trill, Nor quarry trench'd along the hill, And haunted by the wrangling daw; Nor runlet tinkling from the rock; Nor pastoral rivulet that swerves To left and right thro' meadowy curves, That feed the mothers of the flock; But each has please a kindred eye, And each reflects a kindlier day, And, leaving these, to pass away, I think once more he seems to die. ~ Alfred lord Tennyson~