Mournfully, oh, mournfully,The midnight wind doth sigh,Like some sweet plaintive melodyOf ages long gone by.
The nightingale as soon as April bringeth Unto her rested sense a perfect waking, While late bare earth, proud of new clothing, springeth, Sings out her woes, a thorn her song-book making. And Mournfully bewailing, Her throat in tunes expresseth What grief her breast oppresseth.
Mournfully, oh, Mournfully, The midnight wind doth sigh, Like some sweet plaintive melody Of ages long gone by.
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