  “p??ta ?e? ?a? ??d??a ??e?” Once the black pine-trees on the mountain side, The river dancing down the valley blue, And strange brown grasses swaying with the tide, All spoke to me of you. But now the sullen streamlet creeping slow, The moaning tree-tops dark above my head, The weeds where once the grasses used to grow Tell me that you are dead. |
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