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 This mortal world, unless Love strew the scene With freshening flowers. And O ! the pain one feels, That feverish flame that creeps through every nerve... Not soothed but fanned by Nature's cooling hand... That anguish deep for one beloved ! Worse than A brute is he that having power to soothe Lends not his tender aid! O! Save me dear From yonder black bee puzzing over the bloom That thou hast pluckt. "She drew behind him close As if for fear, and threw her arms around His neck, like frightened fawn behind from bush Of stately growth. I "tremble Prince", she said In accents choked within an ivory throat, "There crept into the hollow of that trunk A frightful snake. Then carry me secure To yonder summer house that skirts that lake." She hung upon his arm, and he led on. At that gate she looked relieved, held firm The Prince's hand, and in her turn played guide. "Lo ! Prince," she said a into a room they stepped, "Upon these walls, a master pencil's work, It was a smith of learning great, who was Much favoured at our court. Him brahmins feared; And once my sire in whimsied mood bade him Draw these. Become they not a bridal gift ?

The art of love is there laid bare, and if You read it to the end, why, then, thou learn'st- Where love is strong there hearts may wed. You mark the amours of that shephered God గురుజాడలు