 | On Viol and Flute |  |
147
FORGOTTEN.
That long blue line that ends the sky
Is my forsaken home;
At last, at last, a wayworn traveller, I
Come back to my own chilly heaven, to die
Under its cold grey dome.
Is my forsaken home;
At last, at last, a wayworn traveller, I
Come back to my own chilly heaven, to die
Under its cold grey dome.
There'll be no welcome on the shore,
No bright familiar face
Will laugh and rush to meet me from the door;
I have no place nor portion any more
In my own land and race.
No bright familiar face
Will laugh and rush to meet me from the door;
I have no place nor portion any more
In my own land and race.
Only the patient dead, that sleep
Beside the birches on the hill,
Will know me coming from the wasteful deep,
Will let me sit before their graves and weep
Where all is old and still.
Beside the birches on the hill,
Will know me coming from the wasteful deep,
Will let me sit before their graves and weep
Where all is old and still.
| On Viol and Flute | |