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(The Pilgrim)

Below me half a world I see outspread;

 Above, blue heaven; around, peaks of snow;
And yet the happy pulse of life is slow,
 I dream of distant places, pleasures dead.
The woods of Lithuania I would tread
 Where happy-throated birds sing songs I know;
Above the trembling marshland I would go
 Where chill-winged curlews dip and call o'er head.

A tragic, lonely terror grips my heart,
 A longing for some peaceful, gentle place,
And memories of youthful love I trace.
 Unto my childhood home I long to start,
And yet if all the leaves my name could cry
 She would not pause nor heed as she passed by.