Around my garden the little wall is low;
In the bailiff's lodge the lists are seldom checked.
I am ashamed to think we were not always kind;
I regret your labors, that will never be repaid.

The caged bird owes no allegiance;
The wind-tossed flower does not cling to the tree.
. . . . . . . . . .
Where to-night she lies none can give us news;
Nor any knows, save the bright watching moon.