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Ah, who'll heal his afflictions,To whom balsam was poison,Who, from love's fullness,Drank in misanthropy only?First despised, and now a despiser,He, in secret, wastethAll that he is worth,In a selfishness vain.If there be, on thy psaltery,Father of Love, but one toneThat to his ear may be pleasing,Oh, then, quicken his heart!Clear his cloud-enveloped eyesOver the thousand fountainsClose by the thirsty oneIn the desert.

Wander, wander