Of the treasure of your years, Of the fountain of your tears.
For you knew not it was I, And I knew not it was you.
We have learnt, as days went by.
But a flower struck root and grew Underground, and no one knew.
Day of days! Unmarked it rose, In whose hours we were to meet; And forgotten passed. Who knows, Was earth cold or sunny, Sweet, At the coming of your feet?
One mere day, we thought; the measure Of such days the year fulfils.
Now, how dearly would we treasure Something from its fields, its rills, And its memorable hills.
End of title
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