SONG
.
YE
gentle
gales
,
that
careless
blow
Regardless
of
a
lover's
sighs
;
Ye
streams
,
unheeding
,
as
ye
flow
,
The
wretch
who
on
your
margin
dies
:
Far
from
these
banks
I
fly
to
prove
If
absence
is
a
cure
for
love
.
Yet
say
,
my
heart
,
can
distant
plains
,
Tho'
e'er
so
fair
the
flowers
they
boast
,
Can
clearer
streams
assuage
thy
pains
,
And
give
thee
back
thy
quiet
lost
?
Ah
no
;
and
thou
,
alas
!
wilt
prove
That
absence
is
no
cure
for
love
.