A Song lay silent in my pen Where yesterday I found it, Right cozy in its gloomy den, With a melody wrapped round it. Through all the years ’t was waiting so, To hear the summons of that minute; I thought I loved the pen; but no! It was the song within it! To-day my lady sang to me My song in sweetest fashion: Unwrapped it from the melody In the radiance of its passion. As one might see a blossom grow, Yet never see the sun above it, I thought I loved the song; but no! It was her singing of it!
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