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 The marble satyr plays a mournful strain That leaves the rainy fragrance musical.

Oh dripping laurel, Phœbus sacred tree, Would that swift Daphne's lot might come to me, Then would I still my soul and for an hour Change to a laurel in the glancing shower.

The moon grows out of the hills A yellow flower, The lake is a dreamy bride Who waits her hour.

Beauty has filled my heart, It can hold no more, It is full, as the lake is full, From shore to shore.