Summer Fête, The - Song

Bring hither, bring thy lute, while day is dying —
Here will I lay me and list to thy song;
Should tones of other days mix with its sighing,
Tones of a light heart, now banisht so long,
Chase them away — they bring but pain,
And let thy theme be woe again.

Sing on thou mournful lute — day is fast going,
Soon will its light from thy chords die away;
One little gleam in the west is still glowing,
When that hath vanisht, farewell to thy lay.
Mark, how it fades! — see, it is fled!
Now, sweet lute, be thou, too, dead.
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