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Death is to me the cool, still night,
And life the sultry day.
It darkens—let me slumber;
I'm weary of the light.
Over my bed the willows weep;
There sings the young sweet nightingale;
She sings of love, love only;
I hear it even in sleep.
And life the sultry day.
It darkens—let me slumber;
I'm weary of the light.
Over my bed the willows weep;
There sings the young sweet nightingale;
She sings of love, love only;
I hear it even in sleep.
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