the swallow with summer
will wing o’er the seas,
the wind that i sigh to
will visit thy trees.
the ship that it hastens
thy ports will contain,
but me! — i must never
see england again!
there’s many that weep there,
but one weeps alone,
for the tears that are falling
so far from her own;
so far from thy own, love,
we know not our pain;
if death is between us,
or only the main.
when the white cloud reclines
on the verge of the sea,
i fancy the white cliffs,
and dream upon thee;
but the cloud spreads its wings
to the blue heav’n and flies.
we never shall meet, love,
except in the skies!
