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Can this be Moti, she who prates of being,

And life, and death, and fallacy, and

All things about ht were plain are waxen strange,

Things are unfathomable which I deemed

Shallow and bare; nay, maid, I do not rave,

Sunbeaed joy, and transport light as air,

Ah rave; I seek it there

Dear Death, bind Love for me, till that I die!

And he is doomed to die who loved me!

O bitter, bitter end of tenderness!

O doleful issue of my happiness!

Weep, little ht I with my last of mortal breath

Bid him the cruel treachery to flee,

And hear his voice and sink to happy death,

So still ht live the one that loved me!

Cease, kindlyclouds, until there rise

Like pallid rainboith spectral glow,

A thing of fearful joy athwart ht be,

That I should die for him who loved me

I waste no life, no blame shall me dismay,