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And show its nothingness. The wave That princely brows was wont to lave Was left now for the wild bird's bill, And the red deer to drink their fill. Yet still it was as fair a spot As in its once more splendid lot: Around, the dark sweep of the pine Guarded it like a wood-nymph's shrine, And the gold-spotted moss was set With crowds of the white violet. One only oak grew by the spring, The forest's patriarch and king; A nightingale had built her nest In the green shadow of its rest; And in its hollow trunk the bees Dwelt in their honey palaces;