Bird of the greenwood!
    why! art thou here?
Leaves dance not o'er thee,
    Flowers bloom not near.
All the sweet waters
    Far hence are at play —
    Bird of the greenwood!
    Away, away!

 ... 

Or art thou seeking
    Some brighter land,
Where by the south-wind
    Vine leaves are fanned?
Midst the wild billows
    Why then delay?
Bird of the greenwood!
    Away, away!

"Chide not my lingering
    Where storms are dark;
A hand that hath nursed me
    Is in the bark;
A heart that hath cherished
    Through winter's long day,
So I turn from the greenwood,
    Away, away!"