The Desert gave him back to us; the Sea
Yielded him up; the icy Northland strand
Lured him not long, nor that soft German air
He loved could keep him. Ever his own land
Fettered his heart and brought him back again.
What sounds are those of farewell and despair
Blown by the winds across the wintry main?
What unknown way is this that he has gone,
Our Bayard, in such silence, and alone?
What new, strange guest has tempted him once more