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 Fair as the poppy amid the wheat,—

Her breath as the breath of the wild grape, sweet

In the twilight tender,—

She loved thy splendor

Of perfect day to greet.

And it is thou—of gods most dear!—

Thou, sun-god! who hast led me here:

Whose smile caressing,

My wrong redressing,

Tells me the Maid is near!

Blessèd, O blessèd, be thy light!

She comes from the shadows—blissful sight!—

To the breast that bore her,

To the yearning for her,

That fills me, day and night!