’Twas writ, in truth, of old; the tide of love
Has met its turn, the long horizon lures
The homing bird, the harbour calls the sail.
Home, home to your glad heart she goes, while I
Fare on alone, and only broken dreams
Abide with me! And yet, when you shall tread
Lightly your sunlit hills with her and breathe
Life’s keener air, all but too exquisite,
Or look through purpling twilight on the world,
Think not my heart has followed nevermore