She
 
LIKE a serpent to the calling voice of flutes,
Glides my heart into thy fingers, O my Love!
Where the night—wind, like a lover, leans above
His jasmine—gardens and sirisha—bowers;
And on ripe boughs of many—coloured fruits
Bright parrots cluster like vermilion flowers.
 
 
He
 
Like the perfume in the petals of a rose,
Hides thy heart within my bosom, O my love!
Like a garland, like a jewel, like a dove
That hangs its nest in the asoka—tree.
Lie still, O love, until the morning sows
Her tents of gold on fields of ivory.

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