Francisca walks in the shadow of night, But it is not to gaze on the heavenly light — But if she sits in her garden bower, `Tis not for the sake of its blowing flower. She listens — but not for the nightingale — Though her ear expects as soft a tale. There winds a step through the foliage thick, And her cheek grows pale, and her heart beats quick. There whispers a voice thro` the rustling leaves; A moment more and they shall meet — `Tis past — her lover`s at her feet.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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