Once more the rain on the mountain,
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Once more the wind in the valley,
With the soft odours of springtime
And the long breath of remembrance,
Warm is the sun in the city.
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On the street corners with laughter
Traffic the flower-girls. Beauty
Blossoms once more for thy pleasure
Gentlier now falls the twilight,
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With the slim moon in the pear-trees;
And the green frogs in the meadows
Blow on shrill pipes to awaken
Gladlier now crimson morning
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Flushes fair-built Mitylene,—
Portico, temple, and column,—
Where the young garlanded women
Praise thee with singing.
Ah, but what burden of sorrow
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Tinges their slow stately chorus,
Though spring revisits the glad earth?
Wilt thou not wake to their summons,
Shall they then never behold thee,—
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Nevermore see thee returning
Down the blue cleft of the mountains,
Nor in the purple of evening
Nevermore answer thy glowing
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Youth with their ardour, nor cherish
With lovely longing thy spirit,
Nor with soft laughter beguile thee,
Heedless, assuaged, art thou sleeping
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Where the spring sun cannot find thee,
Nor the wind waken, nor woodlands
Bloom for thy innocent rapture
Hast thou no passion nor pity
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For thy deserted companions?
Never again will thy beauty
Quell their desire nor rekindle,
Nay, but in vain their clear voices
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Call thee. Thy sensitive beauty
Is become part of the fleeting
Loveliness, merged in the pathos
In the faint fragrance of flowers,
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On the sweet draft of the sea-wind,
Linger strange hints now that loosen
Tears for thy gay gentle spirit,