Fast fall the silv'ry dews, albeit not yet
Fast fall the silv'ry dews, albeit not yet
'Tis autumn weather; for each drop's a tear,
Shed till the pillow of my hand is wet,
As I awake from dreaming of my dear.
'Tis autumn weather; for each drop's a tear,
Shed till the pillow of my hand is wet,
As I awake from dreaming of my dear.
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