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Dion Crawley
Cory Hardison
William Crider

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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~

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