for slowly they are all headed South, the way of all things, and in my grief I am forced to follow them in spirit, After much premeditation, each says good-bye one day and leaves, and I watch as they pull the gate shut behind them, carrying their turns of phrase, coins changing faces, as if returning sights to their natural course and destination, You could call it an exile in reverse, They return down to the new, for now it’s where they go, And I forced to follow them in spirit, And I can’t cross o’er – only when sitting, when things lie still in their old empty quarters, There they are like the rising motes, Never agen, Ned, never agen, I shall be gone when th’ cuckoo sings o’ yon’ hillside, They are swimming in the lower coarse lands, nothing stays,