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(Translation from the Moorish by Walter Harris of Tangier)

I I find this Orange Garden fair: The dim dishevelled grass is wet and chill. Desolate, croaking frogs distress the air, But birds, if ever birds come here, are still.

Even the oranges have lost their light And droop forlorn beneath the sombre green. A water-wheel creaks somewhere out of sight, rey mist and shadow veil the lonely scene.

And when I think I hear your coming feet Rustle across the grass and violet leaves, 'Tis but the gardener, who fears to meet, Among the gloom some fruit-attracted thieves.

II Fair, ah, fair, is the sunny Orange Garden, Secret and shady, scented and green. Gold, red gold, are the oranges in clusters, Fragrant and bright in their ripened sheen.

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