Текст оригинала на английском языке
Sweet breeze that sett'st the summer birds a swaying, Dear lambs amid the primrose meadows playing Let me not think! O floods, upon whose brink The merry birds are maying, Dream, softly dream! O blessed mother lead me Unsevered from thy girdle — lead me! feed me! I have no will but shine; I need not but the juice Of elemental wine— Perish remoter use Of strength reserved for conflict yet to come! Let me be dumb, As long as I may feel thy hand— This, this is all—do ye not understand How the great Mother mixes all our bloods ? O breeze! O swaying buds! O lambs, O primroses, O floods!
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