How old is my heart, how old is my heart,

and did I ever go forth with song when the morn was new?

I seem to have trod on many ways: I seem to have left

I know not how many homes; and to leave each

was still to leave a portion of mine own heart,

of my old heart whose life I had spent to make that home

and all I had was regret, and a memory.

So I sit and muse in this wayside harbour and wait

till I hear the gathering cry of the ancient winds and
again

I must up and out and leave the embers of the hearth

to crumble silently into white ash and dust,

and see the road stretch bare and pale before me: again

my garment and my home shall be the enveloping winds

and my heart be fill’d wholly with their old pitiless cry.