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, dragon-fly, fold up your purple wing, Why will you bring me tidings of the spring? O lilting koels, hush your rapturous notes, O dhadikulasdadhikulas [sic], still your passionate throats, Or seek some further garden for your nest. . . Your songs are poisoned arrows in my breast.

O quench your flame, ye crimson gulmohors, That flaunt your dazzling bloom across my doors, Furl your white bells, sweet champa buds that call Wild bees to your ambrosial festival, And hold your breath, O dear sirisha trees. . . You slay my heart with bitter memories.

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