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the sleepy hills of Spain, The sun goes down in yellow mist, The sky is fresh with dewy stars Above a sea of amethyst.

Yet in the city of my love High noon burns all the heavens bare— For him the happiness of light, For me a delicate despair.

Oh give me neither love nor tears, Nor dreams that sear the night with fire, Go lightly on your pilgrimage Unburdened by desire.