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Are clear and still once more!—Wilt thou look forth? Now, while the sunset, with low streaming light— The light thou lov'st—hath made the elm-wood stems All burning bronze, the river molten gold! Wilt thou be rais'd upon thy couch, to meet The rich air fill'd with wandering scents and sounds? Or shall I lay thy dear, dear head once more On this true bosom, lulling thee to rest With our own evening hymn?

Eugene.Not now, dear love, My soul is wakeful—lingering to look forth, Not on the sun, but thee!—Doth the light sleep On the stream tenderly? and are the stems Of our own elm trees, by its alchemy, So richly chang'd? and is the sweet-brier scent Floating around?—But I have said farewell, Farewell to earth, Teresa!—not to thee; Nor yet to our deep love, nor yet awhile