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The brook goes gently murmuring
On its accustomed way,
Thro' meadow grasses singing,
Thro' forests old and gray;
But its song seems strangely dreary
On this October day.


"Oh! fragrant grasses bending
To kiss me as I go,
Well may my heart be dreary,
Well may my song be low,
And each succeeding ripple
Be noiseless in its flow.


"For day by day my pulses
Must yet more slowly beat,
Till comes a time--oh, daisies!
When never more shall meet
Your fragrant lips my waters
In kisses soft and sweet.


"Oh! lovers who have lingered
Full many a time with me
To talk your foolish nonsense
With lovers' harmony,
but yet a little longer
Your servant I can be!


"For know you not, the hour
Comes near when winter's king
Shall freeze my lips in silence
With icy covering?
And I shall die in sorrow,
Crushed 'neath his cold, white wing."


And slowly, yet more sternly,
The brook goes on its way
Thro' ferns and drooping grasses,
And thro' the forests gray.
And its song is yet more feeble--
More plaintive day by day.