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Updated: May 16, 2025
My plaint is, for tears, as the mourning of women bereft of young, And I moan, when the darkness gathers, as the turtles, sad and low. Yet, if the breezes flutter from the land where thou dost dwell, Their wafts o'er the earth, sun-weaned, a grateful coolness throw. Peace be on thee, my beloved, as long as the cushat flies, As long as the turtles warble, as long as the zephyrs blow!
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