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Jungle gloom is dim and cool, And, even through the noonday heat, Among the reeds beside the pool The silent air is freshly sweet.

Though desert winds, sand-laden, pass, And all the tree-tops bend and sigh, No breezes stir the flower-filled grass Beside the lake where we shall lie.

We shall not hear the Temple bells, The tom-tom's sad insistent beat, The far Bazaar, whose murmur swells With eager cries and restless feet.

We shall not know the myriad cares That make the Home's soft tyranny, And all the Temple's lip-worn prayers, Its ordered gifts, will pass us by.

Those lip-worn prayers; whose sense is lost Effaced by long and tearful use, By thousands daily skywards tost, While still the God's reject,—refuse,—

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