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Written to an Indian tune

up the veils that darken the delicate moon of thy glory and grace, Withhold not, O Love, from the night of my longing the joy of thy luminous face, Give me a spear of the scented keora guarding thy pinioned curls, Or a silken thread from the fringes that trouble the dream of thy glimmering pearls; Faint grows my soul with thy tresses' perfume and the song of thy anklets' caprice, Revive me, I pray, with the magical nectar that dwells in the flower of thy kiss.

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