And why the azure violet
Should wither in the vale?
And why the lark should in the cloud
So sorrowfully sing?
And why from loveliest balsam-buds
A scent of death should spring?
And why the sun upon the mead
So chillingly should frown?
And why the earth should, like a grave,
Be moldering and brown?
And why it is that I myself
So languishing should be?
And why it is, my heart of hearts,
That thou forsakest me?
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