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dá n i e l be r z se n y i | 21 dá n i e l b e r z s e n y i (17 7 6 – 183 6 ) Winter Is Coming Now wilts our verdant park, its sweet adornments fall; Swept through its naked boughs rustle the yellow leaves, Roses fled from the maze, and with his balmy scent Zephyr no longer is blowing. Mute is the chorus; stilled, in the arbor’s green shade, The wet sally-gardens, the turtledove’s cooing. The dell of the violets does not perfume the air, Crude sedge clogs the stream’s bright mirror. Silent darkness broods in the mountains’ great arches, The clusters of scarlet berries no longer smile. Here erstwhile rang out the sweet song of happiness: All now is sad and desolate. Oh, how swiftly has winged time suddenly flown away, All its works afloat round its vanishing feather! All is appearance, everything under the sky Fades, as does a forget-me-not. Slowly the buds of my garland wither and fall, My beautiful spring has passed me by; just a taste Touched my lips, I scarcely had time to celebrate But one or two of its blossoms. It leaves me and never returns, my golden age; It cannot be summoned back by any new spring! Nor can the spell be lifted, my closed eyes opened By my Lolli’s soft brown eyebrow! Circa 1804 ...

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