  Weariness the tune of this evening melody, Pain the lute to which I sing; Ah! goddess, why this gray measure In thy starry harmony? The white conch Silent as though all worship's ceased, No incense-perfume from the forest censer The breeze brings; all still, like torrid noon. I row in a black bark on a copper-colored sea, The sun fades like a golden bubble in its deep; Weariness the chart that I hold in my hand, Weariness the tune of this evening melody. |
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