Water rushing at the river’s edge, wind passing through birch trees, whisper like childhood laughter, memories of loved companions flow like wind and water.

The River Duddon: XXI - Whence That Low Voice?

— by William Wordsworth

Whence that low voice?—A whisper from the heart, That told of days long past, when here I roved With friends and kindred tenderly beloved; Some who had early mandates to depart, Yet are allowed to steal my path athwart By Duddon’s side; once more do we unite, Once more, beneath the kind Earth’s tranquil light; And smothered joys into new being start. From her unworthy seat, the cloudy stall Of Time, breaks forth triumphant Memory; Her glistening tresses bound, yet light and free As golden locks of birch, that rise and fall On gales that breathe too gently to recall Aught of the fading year’s inclemency!