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But I would dwell beside the sea,
And of the scattered shells
Ask, when they murmur mournfully,
What sorrow in the past may be,
Of which their music tells.
Winds, waves, and breathing shells are sad—
Methinks I should repine,
If their low tones were only glad,
‘Twould seem too much as if they had
No sympathy for mine.
Not long such fancies can beguile
Dreams of what cannot be;
Gone is thy visionary smile,
And thou art but a distant isle
Upon a distant sea.
