In childhood's pride I said to Thee:
"O Thou, who mad'st me of Thy
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What do you sell O ye merchants ?
Richly your wares are displayed.
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Beloved, you may be as all men say
Only a transient spark
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IN noon-tide hours, O Love, secure and strong,
I need thee not; mad dreams are mine to bind
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WHEN from my cheek I lift my veil,
The roses turn with envy pale,
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TARRY a while, O Death, I cannot die
While yet my sweet life burgeons with its spring;
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LORD BUDDHA, on thy Lotus-throne,
With praying eyes and hands elate,
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Deign, Prince, my tribute to receive, This lyric offering to your name,
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HER life is a revolving dream
Of languid and sequestered ease;
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GOLDEN sun of victory, born
In my life's unclouded morn,
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SHALT thou be conquered of a human fate My liege, my lover, whose imperial head
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Time's river winds in foaming centuries
Its changing, swift, irrevocable course
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The new hath come and now the old retires: And so the past becomes a mountain-cell,
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I MUSE among these silent fanes Whose spacious darkness guards your dust;
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NAY, no longer I may hold you,
In my spirit's soft caresses,
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To tangled paths where shy gazelles are straying,
And parrot-plumes outshine the dying day.
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LORD of the lotus, lord of the harvest,
Bright and munificent lord of the morn!
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SEE how the speckled sky burns like a pigeon's throat, Jewelled with embers of opal and peridote.
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QUEEN GULNAAR sat on her ivory bed,
Around her countless treasures were spread;
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O little mouse, why dost thou cry
While merry stars laugh in the sky?
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A KOKILA called from a henna-spray:
Lira! liree! Lira! liree!
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Nay, do not grieve tho' life be full of sadness,
Dawn will not veil her spleandor for your grief,
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Cover mine eyes, O my Love!
Mine eyes that are weary of bliss
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(Parvati at her lattice) O Love! were you a basil-wreath to twine
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I give thee back thy false, ephemeral vow;
But, O beloved comrade, ere we part
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You flaunt your beauty in the rose, your glory in the dawn,
Your sweetness in the nightingale, your white- ness in the swan.
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WHITHER dost thou hide from the magic of my flute-call?
In what moonlight-tangled meshes of perfume,
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Men say the world is full of fear and hate, And all life's ripening harvest-fields await
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LAMP of my life, the lips of Death
Hath blown thee out with their sudden breath;
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Like this alabaster box whose art Is frail as a cassia-flower, is my heart,
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