In Exile

A WIND comes over my heart, asthore,
With a shaking of silver wings,
From the green, far hills I shall see no more,
Where your morning linnet sings.

There comes to me now, like a flutter of leaves,
The lilt of a tune and the tap of a shoe,
My heart at the memory throbs and grieves,
Oh, the voice and the looks of you!

Over the wind-vexed, sobbing seas
My dream-faint eyes now stray;
I am borne by a lilt on the evening breeze
To a vanished Patrick's Day.
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