The swallow leaves her nest

The swallow leaves her nest,

The soul my weary breast;

But therefore let the rain

On my grave

Fall pure; for why complain?

Since both will come again

O'er the wave.

The wind dead leaves and snow

Doth hurry to and fro;

And, once, a day shall break

O'er the wave,

When a storm of ghosts shall shake

The dead, until they wake

In the grave.