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Friends, who have loved me well and known me ill,
Who called me joyous only yesterday--
You know how dear it was to me to stray
Free-footed, restless, drawn by every hill
That promised Heaven beyond, till heart and will
Swept with the winds a million worlds away!
Yet earth has never child she may not slay,
Nor sea a lover that she cannot kill.


The road is calling, and I may not wait,
The breeze that fans the stars shall be for guide--
Good friends, 'tis never time for tears, when wide
Swing the kind portals of the ├ćon-gate!
And should men name me dead, I beg ye, say
"Nay, he but wearied here, and went away."