A few short hours, and sun will rise
To give the morrow birth;
And I shall hail the main and skies,
But not my mother earth.
Deserted is my own good hall,
Its hearth is desolate;
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall,
My dog howls at the gate.
My spouse and boys dwell near the hall,
Along the bordering lake;
And when they on their father call,
What answer shall she make?
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