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422 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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When you speak it awakens my pain, And my eyelids by sleep are forsaken, And I seek for my slumber in vain. |
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But were I on the fields of the ocean
I should sport on its infinite room, I should plow through the billows' commotion
Though my friends should look dark at my doom. For the flower of all maidens of magic
Is beside me where'er I may be, And my heart like a coal is extinguished,
Not a woman takes pity on me. |
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How well for the birds in all weather,
They rise up on high in the air, And then sleep upon one bough together
Without sorrow or trouble or care; But so it is not in this world
For myself and my thousand-times fair, For, away, far apart from each other,
Each day rises barren and bare. |
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Say, what dost thou think of the heavens
When the heat overmasters the day, Or what when the steam of the tide
Rises up in the face of the bay ? Even so is the man who has given
An inordinate love-gift away, Like a tree on a mountain all riven
Without blossom or leaflet or spray. |
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