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 WHEN the vine again is blowing,

Then the wine moves in the cask;
When the rose again is glowing,

Wherefore should I feel oppress'd?

Down my cheeks run tears all-burning,

If I do, or leave my task;
I but feel a speechless yearning,

That pervades my inmost breast.
But at length I see the reason, When the question I would ask: 'Twas in such a beauteous season, Doris glowed to make me blest! 1797.

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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