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Rh I am indifferent to my own songs—I will go with
 * him I love,

It is to be enough for us that we are together—We
 * never separate again.



Hours continuing long, sore and heavy-hearted, Hours of the dusk, when I withdraw to a lonesome
 * and unfrequented spot, seating myself, leaning
 * my face in my hands;

Hours sleepless, deep in the night, when I go forth,
 * speeding swiftly the country roads, or through
 * the city streets, or pacing miles and miles, stifling
 * plaintive cries;

Hours discouraged, distracted—for the one I cannot
 * content myself without, soon I saw him content
 * himself without me;

Hours when I am forgotten, (O weeks and months are
 * passing, but I believe I am never to forget!)

Sullen and suffering hours! (I am ashamed—but it
 * is useless—I am what I am;)

Hours of my torment—I wonder if other men ever
 * have the like, out of the like feelings?

Is there even one other like me—distracted—his
 * friend, his lover, lost to him?

Is he too as I am now? Does he still rise in the morning,
 * dejected, thinking who is lost to him? and
 * at night, awaking, think who is lost?