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we lie on the shimmering sand, Well quit of the world and free. The scent of the flowers that bloom inland Is wafted over the sea.

I lean on your shoulder, round and bare, As soft as a ripened peach, And watch the weed, like a woman's hair, Drift up on the curving beach.

Twilight falls on the violet hills,— On silver surf at their feet,— From groves of Orange a wild bird trills Songs that are cruelly sweet,—

Lilac and lemon and rose and grey Lie soft on the dimpled waves,— The golden tribute of parting day Is laid on the Moorish graves.

The lonely dead, who are dispossessed: A Minaret marks their Creed, Grim cactus hedges enshrine their rest, What need, my brothers, what need?

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