Men make them fires on the hearthEach under his roof-tree,And the Four Winds that rule the earthThey blow the smokes to me.Across the high hills and the seaAnd all the changeful skies,The Four Winds blow the smoke to meTill the tears are in my eyes.Until the tears are in my eyesAnd my heart is wellnigh broke;For thinking on old memoriesThat gather in the smoke.With every shift of every windThe homesick memories come,From every quarter of mankindWhere I have made me a home.Four times a fire against the coldAnd a roof against the rain -Sorrow fourfold and joy fourfoldThe Four Winds bring again!How can I answer which is bestOf all the fires that burn?I have been too often host or guestAt every fire in turn.
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