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A single summer grant me, great powers,
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and a single autumn for fully ripened song
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that, sated with the sweetness of my playing,
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my heart may more willingly die.
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The soul that, living, did not attain its
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divine right cannot repose in the nether world.
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But once what I am bent on, what is holy,
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my poetry is accomplished:
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Be welcome then, stillness of the shadows' world!
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I shall be satisfied though my lyre will not
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accompany me down there.
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Once I lived like the gods,