In other years—lost youth's enchanted years,
Seen now, and evermore, through blinding tears
And empty longing for what may not be—
The Desert gave him back to us; the Sea
Yielded him up; the icy Norland strand
Lured him not long, nor that soft German air
He loved could keep him. Ever his own land
Fettered his heart and brought him back again.
What sounds are these of farewell and despair
Blown by the winds across the wintry main!
What unknown way is this that he has gone,
Our Bayard, in such silence and alone?
What new strange quest has tempted him once more
To leave us? Vainly, standing by the shore,
We strain our eyes. But patience!... when the soft
Spring gales are blowing over Cedarcroft,
Whitening the hawthorn; when the violets bloom
Along the Brandywine, and overhead
The sky is blue as Italy's—he will come!
Ay, he will come! To us he is not dead.
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