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THE soul of a flute is sighing
At the sounding heart of the park;
We breathe thy silent replying
Song in the limpid dark,


Night of languor, night of deceiving,
Who thy dream-hair dost unfurl,
Into it leisurely heaving
The moon, an Orient pearl.


With your changing blue eyes, ye sisters,
Clarissa, and Clara, and Kate,
The star in the water glisters,
Come, ere it be too late,


to the paths where the moonlight is gleaming,
And gather the sadness of their
Hearts that die of the dreaming
Of dying among your hair ...