Fotheringay [Symonds on Sunday]

How often she has gazed from castle windows o'er,
And watched the daylight passing within her captive wall,
With no-one to heed her call.
The evening hour is fading within the dwindling sun,
And in a lonely moment those embers will be gone
And the last of all the young birds flown.
Her days of precious freedom, forfeited long before,
To live such fruitless years behind a guarded door,
But those days will last no more.
Tomorrow at this hour she will be far away,
Much farther than these islands,
Or the lonely Fotheringay