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!