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126 THE GOLDEN TREASURY OF |
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TWENTY GOLDEN YEARS AGO
OH, the rain, the weary, dreary rain, How it plashes on the window sill! Night, I guess too, must be on the wane, Strass and gass■ are grown so still. |
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Here I sit, with coffee in my cup — Ah ! 'twas rarely I beheld it flow
In the tavern where I loved to sup Twenty golden years ago ! |
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Twenty years ago, alas !—but stay —
On my life, 'tis half-past twelve o'clock ! After all, the hours do slip away;
Come, here goes to burn another block ! For the night, or morn, is wet and cold,
And my fire is dwindling rather low: I had fire enough when young and bold
Twenty golden years ago. |
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Dear ! I don't feel well at all somehow:
Few in Weimar dream how bad I am; Floods of tears grow common with me now —
High-Dutch floods, that reason cannot dam. Doctors think I'll neither live nor thrive
If I mope at home so. I don't know — Am I living now ? I was alive
Twenty golden years ago !
' Strass and gass, street and lane. |
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