4
I stray through the forest sighing,
The throstle sits on the tree;
He is springing and singing, and crying,
Ah! sweetly: “What aileth thee?”
If the swallows, thy sisters, willed it,
They could tell thee, child, why I pine;
For they dwell in nests deftly builded
Where my darling's windows shine.
The throstle sits on the tree;
He is springing and singing, and crying,
Ah! sweetly: “What aileth thee?”
If the swallows, thy sisters, willed it,
They could tell thee, child, why I pine;
For they dwell in nests deftly builded
Where my darling's windows shine.
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