| To not forget our loving, should I a sign implore?
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| I’d ask for you, but dearest, you are your own no more
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| Nor do I beg a flower from in your golden hair
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| Forgetfulness, beloved is but my single player
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| Oh what a sad sensation, when joy that soon did wane
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| Not swift with it to vanish, but ever here remain!
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| When through tits life to wander it has been writ, it seem
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| A dream made out of shadow, a shadow made of dream
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| No matter when I die, this or some later day
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| My wish is out of the mind of all to I pass away
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| And you forget the dream that our two hearts endears
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| When you loom back, beloved, upon the faded years
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| Let in the depths of shadow my memory be gone
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| As though we midst our loving each other had not known
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| A chant of lamentation within cold walls of chime
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| To beg for me in weeping the peace of endless time
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| As though those hours of wonder in fact we did not live
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| That I so deeply love you dear one can you forgive?
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| My face turned to the desert you left me all alone
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| And cold beneath my eyelids my eyes have turned to stone
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| And when at last death’s soil my body does reclaim
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| Then who will know me or know from whence I came?
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| Let in the depths of shadow my memory be gone
|
| As though we midst our loving each other had not known
|
| A chant of lamentation within cold walls of chime
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| To beg for me in weeping the peace of endless time
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| While then… should they my body into the gutter throw
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| Still that would be far better than what I suffer now
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| Afar of in distance a flock of crows arise
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| And darken all the heavens before my sightless eyes
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| Beyond the earth’s steep margin a hurricane does start
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| Flinging to the world my dust and to the wind my heart
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| Yet as in spring the blossom do you remain the while
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| With gentle eyes and humid and tender, childish smile
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| So much a child, yet seeming each day to younger grow
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| And of my fate know nothing as I too nothing know
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| My face turned to the desert you left me all alone
|
| And cold beneath my eyelids my eyes have turned to stone
|
| And when at last death’s soil my body does reclaim
|
| Then who will know me or know from whence I came?
|
| While then… should they my body into the gutter throw
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| Still that would be far better than what I suffer now |