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262. Delia: An Ode

 FAIR the face of orient day,
 Fair the tints of op’ning rose;
But fairer still my Delia dawns,
 More lovely far her beauty shows.
Sweet the lark’s wild warbled lay, Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; But, Delia, more delightful still, Steal thine accents on mine ear.
The flower-enamour’d busy bee The rosy banquet loves to sip; Sweet the streamlet’s limpid lapse To the sun-brown’d Arab’s lip.
But, Delia, on thy balmy lips Let me, no vagrant insect, rove; O let me steal one liquid kiss, For Oh! my soul is parch’d with love.

Poem by Robert Burns
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