Still glides the stream, slow drops the boat Under the rustling poplars’ shade; Silent the swans beside us float None speaks, none heeds ah, turn thy head. Let those arch eyes now softly shine, That mocking mouth grow sweetly bland: Ah, let them rest, those eyes, on mine; On mine let rest that lovely hand. My pent-up tears oppress my brain, My heart is swoln with love unsaid: Ah, let me weep, and tell my pain, And on thy shoulder rest my head. Before I die, before the soul, Which now is mine, must re-attain Immunity from my control, And wander round the world again: Before this teas’d o’erlabour’d heart For ever leaves its vain employ, Dead to its deep habitual smart, And dead to hopes of future joy.
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