How old is my heart, how old, how old is my heart, and did I ever go forth with song when the morn was new? I seem to have trod on many ways: I seem to have left I know not how many homes; and to leave each was still to leave a portion of mine own heart, of my old heart whose life I had spent to make that home and all I had was regret, and a memory. So I sit and muse in this wayside harbour and wait till I hear the gathering cry of the ancient winds and again I must up and out and leave the members of the hearth to crumble silently into white ash and dust, and see the road stretch bare and pale before me: again my garment and my house shall be the enveloping winds and my heart be fill`d wholly with their old pitiless cry.SourceThe script ran 0.002 seconds.
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