Classic Poem

If a leaf swim away on the stream,
Who can tell where 'twill rest at the last?
Or if thistledown fly on the wind,
Will it come by a back-flowing blast?
If my love o'er the ocean shall roam,
Will he come again home.
Aye, home?

Shall the fleet-rushing swallow that speeds
In the fall, o'er the broad-reaching sea,
Come again in the following spring,
Here to wheel round the old parrock tree?
If my love sail afar from the land,
Will he yet shake our hand.
Aye, hand?

Oh! the cherry-tree blossom'd all white,
And again with its cherries was red;
But it now has been chill'd by the frost,
And it seems to be withering dead.
I had joy under last summer's sky,
And to-year must it die.
Aye, die?

No. My love's not a leaf on the stream,
Nor the down of the thistle's brown seeds,
Nor a swallow that never may find
Its old haunts in our green summer meads.
And although, for a while, he may roam,
He will find his way home.