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In the woods and vallies lone Music haunts thee not thine own: Wherefore fall thy tears like rain? Sister, thou hast loved in vain!

Tail me not the tale, my flower! On my bosom pour that shower! Tell me not of kind thoughts wasted; Tell me not of young hopes blasted; Wring not forth one burning word, Let thy heart no more be stirred! Home alone can give thee rest. —Weep, sweet sister, on my breast!