116
The Expatriated.
No bird is singing
In cloud or on tree,
No eye is beaming
Glad welcome to me;
The forest is tuneless;
Its brown leaves fast fall—
Changed and withered, they fleet
Like hollow friends all.
No door is thrown open,
No banquet is spread;
No hand smoothes the pillow
For the Wanderer's head;
But the eye of distrust
Sternly measures his way,
And glad are the cold lips
That wish him—good day!
Good day!—I am grateful
For such gentle prayer,
