I heard Parisian revelers, and so
Forgot the maiden who had wept for me;
I saw my face reflected in the Po,
And saw Italian suns sink in the sea.
Aweary of it all, at last, I turned
My face back to my glorious native land;
I thought of her again—my bosom burned—
And joyfully I left the ancient strand.
At last, I held her little hand again,
But, oh, the seasons had kept rolling on,