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How sad that spring should vanish with the rose,
that youth's sweet-scented manuscript should close!
The nightingale that in the branches sang,
has flown away, to where nobody knows.
Oh, would some angel before it is too late
suppress the yet-unopened scroll of fate
and bid the author that with all his skill
a happy ending he should formulate.
Ah love, could you and I with him conspire
to grasp this sorry scheme of things entire,
would we not shatter it to bits and then
remake it nearer to the heart's desire?
Yon rising moon that looks for us again,
how oft hereafter will it wax and wane?
How many night-times will it search for us
within this leafy grove — and search in vain!
When, wine-maiden, like the moon you pass
amongst the guests star-scattered on the grass,
and in your joyful stroll you reach the spot
where I once was — turn down an empty glass!