  We played beside the little rill That flows to larger river; We heard the mating mocking-birds trill, The robins piped upon the hill, And Cupid strung his little bow and filled his little quiver: Then she, we played, was little Jill, And I was Jack, her lover. But floating down the little stream Toward the larger river, The rippling of the waves did seem The fading music of a dream, For Cupid broke his silver bow and lost his golden quiver; And Jill forgot the hour supreme When I was Jack, her lover. |
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