O wanderer in every vale,
Chanting with exile's song and tale;
Recite for us the tender strain
From every art of genius' reign.
In morning and in evening hour,
In rising and in fading power;
Through this bird's sweet art, I see
Thou art a meaning lost at sea.
Thou heedest not life's course or way,
In groan or in complaint each day;
The world is but a passing breath,
The wind shall scatter it to death.
So flee from it in peace, I pray.
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