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M rchen rose, which has so often Charmed me with thy fragrant breath; Where the prince, the poets slumber, Thou hast wreathed the hall of death. And with thee beside each coffin, In the death-hushed chamber pale, I beheld a grief-enchanted, Sweetly dreaming nightingale. I rejoiced amid the stillness; Gladness through my bosom past, That the gloomy poets' coffins Such a magic crowned at last.
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