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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.

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