Still Glides The Stream, Slow Drops The Boat Under The Rustling Poplars' Shade; Silent The Swans Beside Us Float None Speaks, None Heeds Ah, Turn Thy Head. Let Those Arch Eyes Now Softly Shine, That Mocking Mouth Grow Sweetly Bland: Ah, Let Them Rest, Those Eyes, On Mine; On Mine Let Rest That Lovely Hand. My Pent-Up Tears Oppress My Brain, My Heart Is Swoln With Love Unsaid: Ah, Let Me Weep, And Tell My Pain, And On Thy Shoulder Rest My Head. Before I Die, Before The Soul, Which Now Is Mine, Must Re-Attain Immunity From My Control, And Wander Round The World Again: Before This Teas'D O'Erlabour'D Heart For Ever Leaves Its Vain Employ, Dead To Its Deep Habitual Smart, And Dead To Hopes Of Future Joy.