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The deep, the lone, the dreaming hours, That I have past with thee, When thou hadst not a single thought Of how thou wert with me.

I heard thy voice, I spoke again, I gazed upon thy face; And never scene of actual life Could bear a deeper trace

Than all that fancy conjured up, And make thee look and say; Till I have loathed reality, That chased such dream away.

Alas! this is vain, fond, and false; Thy heart is not for me; And, knowing this, how can I waste My very soul on thee?

that, to the young, suspense is the most intolerable suffering. Active misery always