  Flowing in the sunlight here, The river shines like a glass, Even as it did last year; On the hillside the grass Bows, as the breezes pass— But my love is gone, my love is gone. Where is she—where, and how? Has she forgotten me yet? Ah, she has forgotten me now! She is too lovely for regret: Would that I ever could forget, My love is gone, my love is gone! It is so still—so still ... The sound of a rumbling train Rushes into the hill. Autumn comes again With the old wonder and pain— |
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