"
And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.
"The fire with which my bosom burns, alas! thy coolest breeze
Can never slake, nor can its rage thy coolest wave appease;
The earth can bring no solace to the ardor of my pain,
And the whole ocean waters were poured on it in vain.
For it is like the blazing sun that sinks in ocean's bed,
And yet, with ardor all unquenched, next morning rears its head.
Thus from the sea my suffering's flame has driven me once more,
And here I land, without a hope, upon this arid shore."
And now, like furies, from the east the gale began to blow,
And with the crash of thunder the billows broke below.
"Oh, call me not, oh, call me not, thou voice of other years,
The fire that flames within my heart has dried the spring of tears.
And, while my eyes might well pour forth those bitter drops of pain,
The drought of self-consuming grief has quenched the healing rain.
Here, let me cry aloud for her, whom once I called mine own,
For well I wot that loving maid for me has made her moan.
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