Dost hear the echoes fall
Within thy gilded hall?
Dost thou not ever recall
The day thou wert like me?
When all thy gardens bloom,
Look out into the gloom;
There does the flame consume
Thy budless lilac tree.
There often thou didst play
A-mindless of the day
When soul to soul would say:
"No more of thee and me."
And when withers thy rose,
Throw to the wind that blows
This way a leaf; who knows
What therein I can see.
And till my course is run
I'll count them one by one—
These leaves; and may the sun
Of joy ne'er set on thee.
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