And from their pierced hearts, rich with pain,
Send forth their fragrance like a wail.
Or if perchance one perfumed tress
Be lowered to the wind’s caress,
The honeyed hyacinths complain,
And languish in a sweet distress.
And, when I pause, still groves among,
(Such loveliness is mine) a throng
Of nightingales awake and strain
Their souls into a quivering song.
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among my tresses,A jewelled clasp of shining gold to bind around my sleeve,O Love! were you the keora’s soul that hauntsmy silken raiment,A bright, vermilion tassel in the girdles that I weave;O Love! were you the scented fanthat lies upon my pillow,A sandal lute, or silver lamp that burns before my shrine,Why should I fear…
EYES ravished with rapture, celestially panting, what passionate bosoms aflaming with fire
O wild and entrancing the strain of keen music that cleaveth the stars like a wail of desire,And beautiful dancers with houri-like faces bewitch the voluptuous watches of night.The scents of red roses and sandalwood flutter and die in the maze of their gem-tangled hair,And smiles are entwining like magical serpents the poppies of lips…
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Rise, brothers, rise; the wakening skies pray to the morning light,
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