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Thomas Hood - The Exile
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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!
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