Thomas Hood

The Exile

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!