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To speak love's burning words, yet be   Alone—ay, utterly alone. I sought to fling my laurel wreath Away upon the autumn wind: In vain,—'twas like those poison'd crowns Thou may'st not from the brow unbind.

Predestined from my birth to feed On dreams, yet watch those dreams depart; To bear through life—to feel in death— A burning and a broken heart. Then hang it on the cypress bough, The minstrel-lute I leave to thee; And be it only for the wind To wake its mournful dirge for me.