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sisters plucked green leaves at morn To deck the garden swing, And donned their shining golden veils For the Festival of Spring. . . . But sweeter than the new-blown vines, And the call of nesting birds Are the tendrils of your hair, Beloved, And the music of your words.



My sisters sat beside the hearth Kneading the saffron cakes, They gathered honey from the hives For the Festival of Snakes. . . . 70