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 Dost hear the echoes fall Within thy gilded hall? Dost thou not ever recall The day thou wert like me?

When all thy gardens bloom, Look out into the gloom; There does the flame consume Thy budless lilac tree.

There often thou didst play A-mindless of the day When soul to soul would say: "No more of thee and me."

And when withers thy rose, Throw to the wind that blows This way a leaf; who knows What therein I can see.

And till my course is run I'll count them one by one— These leaves; and may the sun Of joy ne'er set on thee.