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, walled, white City, rising from the plain, Between the grey-green grass, the grey-blue skies, How we have longed for you, and watched in vain Till your pale beauty rose upon our eyes.

From Orange groves, beyond your gated walls, Faint scents of Citron bloom float far away. Upon each wind-worn face the perfume falls Till we forget the journey of the day.

Forget the weary march, its dust and heat, The frequent carrion that taints the air, The three-inch spur, the lame and stumbling feet, The pointed stirrup, clogged with blood and hair.

Forget the wretched brute, that strains and strives, Staggers a few more paces with his load Then falls and dies, beneath the open knives, The kicks and curses of the savage road.

Let us forget (in such forgetfulness Lies the one chance, perhaps, of life at all!) While our burnt lips receive the soft caress Exhaled from Orange flowers beyond the wall.

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