He sang of love, by love commanded, A simple and affecting tune, As clear as maiden thoughts, as candid As infant slumber, as the moon In heaven’s peaceful desert flying, That queen of secrets and of sighing. He sang of parting and of pain, Of something vague, of mists and rain; He sang the rose, romantic flower, And distant lands where once he’d shed His living tears upon the bed Of silence at a lonely hour; He sang life’s bloom gone pale and sere— He’d almost reached his eighteenth year.
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