THE swallow leaves her nest, br The soul my weary breast; br But therefore let the rain br On my grave br Fall pure; for why complain? br Since both will come again br O'er the wave. br br The wind dead leaves and snow br Doth hurry to and fro; br And, once, a day shall break br O'er the wave, br When a storm of ghosts shall shake br The dead, until they wake br In the grave.