Fair art thou, fair to a stranger’s gaze,
Mine own sweet home of other days!
My children’s birthplace!—yet for me
It is too much to look on thee.
Too much! for all about thee spread,
I feel the memory of the dead,
And almost linger for the feet
That never more my step shall meet.
The looks, the smiles, all vanish’d now,
Follow me where thy roses blow;