Of old we housed us on the Hampshire hill,
We plucked the wild rose and the columbine
By roadside birch, we planted woodland vine
Around the door; we leapt the rock, the rill;
We saw a hundred mountain suns all still
And gold go down the sky; with cheek on mine
A hundred eves you sat beneath the pine
And twilight moon to hear the whippoorwill
With me of old.


And now!—deep seas divide,
Deep seas and deeper hate.—The Rhine is fair
Through mists of morning, and along its side
The Drachenfels uplifts its ruin bare
Before me; and I stand in sullen pride,
And of your lot will neither know nor care.