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BARCAROLLE.
The stars are dimly seen among the shadows of the bay,
And lights that win are seen in strife with lights that die away:
The wave is very still—the rudder loosens in our hand,
The zephyr will not fill our sail and waft us to the land;
O precious is the pause between the winds that come and go,
And sweet the silence of the shores between the ebb and flow.
