How old is my heart, how old, how old is my heart, br and did I ever go forth with song when the morn was new? br I seem to have trod on many ways: I seem to have left br I know not how many homes; and to leave each br was still to leave a portion of mine own heart, br of my old heart whose life I had spent to make that home br and all I had was regret, and a memory. br br So I sit and muse in this wayside harbour and wait br till I hear the gathering cry of the ancient winds and again br I must up and out and leave the members of the hearth br to crumble silently into white ash and dust, br and see the road stretch bare and pale before me: again br my garment and my house shall be the enveloping winds br and my heart be fill'd wholly with their old pitiless cry.