| I would that we were, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea
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| Far from the rose and the lily, and fret of the flames would we be
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| And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky
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| Has awakened in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may never die,
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| a sadness that may never die
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| A weariness comes from those dreamers, dew-dabbled, the lily and rose
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| Ah, dream not of that, my beloved, the flame of the meteor that goes
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| Or the flame of the blue star that lingers hung low in the fall of the dew
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| For I would we were changed, my beloved, to white birds on the foam, I and you,
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| to white birds on the foam, I and you
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| Bend low, that I may crown you, flower of the branch
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| Silver fish my hands have taken from the running stream
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| Morning star, trembling in the heavens like a white fawn on the border of a wood
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| Bend that I may crown you, that I may crown you
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| And the flame of the blue star of twilight, hung low on the rim of the sky
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| Has awakened in our hearts, my beloved, a sadness that may never die,
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| a sadness that may never die
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| I am haunted by numberless islands, and many a Danaan shore
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| Where Time would surely forget us, and Sorrow come near us no more
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| Soon far from the rose and the lily and fret of the flames would we be
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| Were we only white birds, my beloved, white birds on the foam of the sea,
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| white birds on the foam of the sea |