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Poem by Thomas Hood
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 their, 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 heaven and flies. We never shall meet, love, Except in the skies!
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