He does not die [I wrote]1 that can bequeath 
Some influence to the land he knows, 
Or dares, persistent, interwreath 
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 crost 
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.