The Poetical Works of Thomas Hood, by Thomas Hood

The Exile.

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!

Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 11:55