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Till I heard the cook's loud crow,

Slumber's weariness o'ercame me

As the splinters wasted low;

And I dreamt:—I dreamt I saw

One who brought to me—poor maiden!

One who with his right hand brought

Golden ring to grace my finger,

Ring with precious gems enwrought—

Where are now those gems?—I know not—

And that youth—I vainly sought.

forests! darksome forests,

Forests deep of Miletin;

Tell me why in summer—winter—

Why are ye for ever green?

Fain would I, my tears subduing,

Cleanse my heart of griefs and cares,