THE LAST THOUGHT

It's weary lying here,

While my throbbing forehead echoes all the hum of London near,

And oh! my heart is heavy, in this dull and darkened room,

When I think about our village, where the orchards are in bloom —

Our little red-roofed village, where the cherry orchards are —

So far away, so far!

They say that I shall die —

And I'm tired, and life is noisy, and the good days have gone by:

But oh! my red-roofed village – I should die with more content

Could I see again your gables, and the orchard slopes of Kent,

And the eyes that look out vainly, from a rose-wreathed cottage door,

For one who comes no more.

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