Robert Burns, 1788
Clarinda, mistres of my soul,|
The measur'd time is run!
The wretch beneath the dreary pole
So marks his latest sun.
2. To what dark cave of frozen night
3. We part-but by these precious drops,|
That fill thy lovely eyes,
No other light shall guide my steps,
Till thy bright beams arise!
4. She, the fair sun of all her sex,
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