Where are my winged words? Dissolved in air.
Where is my flower of youth? All withered. Where
My glory? Vanished! Where the strength I knew
From comely limbs? Disease hath changed it too,
And bent them. Where the riches and the lands? —
God HATH THEM ! Yea, and sinners' snatching hands
Have grudged the rest. Where is my father, mother,
And where my blessed sister, my sweet brother? —
Gone to the grave! — There did remain for me
Alone my fatherland, till destiny,
Malignly stirring a black tempest, drove
My foot from that last rest. And now I rove
Estranged and desolate a foreign shore,
And drag my mournful life and age all hoar
Throneless and cityless, and childless save
This father-care for children, which I have,
Living from day to day on wandering feet.
Where shall I cast this body? What will greet
My sorrows with an end? What gentle ground
And hospitable grave will wrap me round?
Who last my dying eyelids stoop to close —
Some saint, the Saviour's friend? or one of those
Who do not know Him? — The air interpose,
And scatter these words too.