I hear thy voice by Cumbria’s sobbing sea,
        Thy steps are printed in the lonely sand,
    O’er every vale and hill of Westmoreland
Thy gentle form bears company with me.
Most, by Winander’s castled shore I with thee
    I seem to hold sweet converse hand in hand,
    On bossy Loughrigg’s height at gaze to stand
O’er Langdale’s slopes and Bratha’s level lea.

The cold March woods will soon with Spring-time
    But nevermore thy laughter by the rills
        Will sound, thy feet in prison are so fast;
    And tho’ thy spirit wanders as it wills,
To thy bright face I cannot look to know
        Which way the angel of the upland passed.

(Valete: Tennyson and other Memorial Poems, p. 159)