| Now far I am from you, before my fire alone,
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| And read again the hours that so silently have gone,
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| And it seems that eighty years beneath my feet did glide,
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| That I am old as winter, that maybe you have died.
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| The shadows of the past swift stream across life’s floor
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| The tale of all times, nothings that now exist no more;
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| While the wind with clumsy fingers softly fumbles at the blind
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| And sadly spins the fibre of the story in my mind…
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| I see you stand before me in a mist that does enfold,
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| Your eyes are full of tears, and your fingers long and cold;
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| About my neck caressing your arms you gently ply
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| And it seems you want to speak to me yet only sigh.
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| And thus I clasp entranced my all, my world of grace,
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| And both our lives are joined in that supreme embrace…
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| Oh, let the voice of memory remain forever dumb,
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| Forget the joy that was, but that nevermore will come,
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| Forget how after an instant you thrust my arms aside,
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| For now I’m old and lonely, and maybe you have died. |