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The Song Of Princess Zeb-Un-Nissa In Praise Of Her Own Beauty

 WHEN from my cheek I lift my veil, 
The roses turn with envy pale, 
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.

by Sarojini Naidu
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