“Home, bear me home, at last”, he said,
“And lay me where your dead are lying;
But not while skies are overspread,
And mournful wintry winds are sighing!
Wait till the royal march of spring
Carpets the mountain fastness over—
Till chattering birds are on the wing,
And buzzing bees are in the clover.
Wait till the laurel bursts its buds,
And creeping ivy flings its graces