When the swallows homeward fly,
When the roses scatter’d lie,
When from neither hill nor dale,
Chants the silv’ry Nightingale,
In these words my bleeding heart
Would to thee it’s grief impart.
When I thus thy image lose,
Can I, ah! can I ever know repose.
When the white swan southward roves,
to seek at noon the orange groves,
When the red tints of the West,
Prove the sun is gone to rest,
In these words my bleeding heart
Would to thee it’s grief impart.
When I thus thy image lose,
Can I, ah! can I ever know repose.
My poor heart, why do you cry,
Once also you in peace will lie!
All things on this earth must die;
Will then we meet, you and I?
My heart asks with boding pain:
Will faith join us once again?
After today’s bitter parting pain
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