Howling winds their courses run,
Lower sinks the autumn sun,
Lips have met,
Eyes are wet,
While the steamer parts from shore.
Though the summer boats now glide
On Menona's peaceful tide,
Eyes of blue,
Tender, true,
Will return, ah! nevermore.
Summer skies their colors trace
On the lakelet's glassy face;
Ruined boat,
Still afloat,
Haunts Menona's reedy shores;
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