  Like a song that is sung, like a tale that is told, The life in me hushes the voice of its gladness; Youth walks by my side, but his hands have grown cold, And deep in his eyes lurks the shadow of sadness. Alas! for the flowers that never come to me; Alas! for the morning again, now day closes; The joy of a love is as nothing, for through me There passes the deep-wounding thorn of the roses. |
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