How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start, When memory plays an old tune on the heart.
Though language forms the preacher, ‘Tis good works make the man.
Why should we strive, with cynic frown, to knock their fairy castles down?
Who would not rather trust and be deceived?
There’s a magical tie to the land of our home, which the heart cannot break, though the footsteps may roam.