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''Ah tell me not that memory
Sheds gladness o'er the past;
What is recalled by faded flowers
Save that they did not last?''
LANGUIDLY the night-wind bloweth From the gardens round,Where the clear Barrada flowethWith a lulling sound.Not the lute-note's sweet shiverCan such music find,As is on a wandering river,On a wandering wind.