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There flows a brook along the vale,
where will it go? —
My heart moves likewise day and night,
it never seems to rest.
It stands still only at the Mill;
the mill-wheel is turning.
There, it suddenly stops,
Tell me, my heart, why?
It does not stand still the entire way,
it does not even grow tired,
and as I proceed along the path,
it starts throbbing like a wheel.
The wheel turns, the mill whirs on,
and inside there is singing;
When I arrive, a face beckons,
I shan't have to wait very long.