As I went down the glen:
“Next year,” said one, “the wind shall seek,
But find me not again!”
“I shall go forth upon the seas,
A mast, or steering-beam;
On me shall breathe the tropic breeze,
Above, strange stars shall gleam.”
“And I—the ax shall cleave my grain,
And many times divide;
From my dear brood I’ll shed the rain,