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 fir