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Over treetops, white moon wanders,

Forest boughs shake gentle leaf,

Sounds a horn with distant grief,

Alders bow their heads asunder.


Far away and ever farther,

Softer still, its fading breath

Soothing with a dream of death

My soul’s unrelenting ardor.


Why your music from me sever

When I turn to you forlorn—

Will you sound again sweet horn

For my soul’s enchantment, ever?