  Tell me, tell me, gentle stars, Ever watchful, ever bright, From your stations in the sky Do you see my love to-night? White the snow beneath my feet, Whiter far her holy breast; Peaceful are the mighty woods, But her eyes are soft with rest. Sweet the scent of spruce and pine, Sweeter, though, her fragrant breath; Tell her, tell her, gentle stars, I am hers alone till death. |
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