Forth from the wind-swept Country of my Heart,
Fly fast, swift wings!
For hence the summers and their suns depart,—
Here no bird sings.

With spring this country was all verdurous
Well first you came;
Its leafage of sweet songs solicitous;
Its skies aflame.

With dreaming of the summer's warm delights;
Streams sought the sea;
White moons made beautiful the waiting nights;
But here you nested through the smiling spring,—
Through summer, too;
'Tis autumn now, and pleasant things take wing,
So why not you?

Fly hence, and carry with you all my dreams,
My hopes, my fears;
Shall I, while sitting by Life's frozen streams,
Weep idle tears?

Fly hence, swift wings—I have been glad with you
In Life's glad spring;
Heard summer songs, and thought their promise true;
But now—take wing.

You are not doves, that you should bring back leaves
From whelming seas;
Fly far, swift truants, from my silent eaves,—
Leave me but peace.
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