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IN beauty’s realm Thou sitt’st the crownèd lord;
The fair ones kiss Thy feet. Thy locks no hand
May reach to,—all too high uplifted stand
The bases of Thy throne. Those tresses poured
About Thy moonlike face have all adored,
Muslim and pagan, every sect and creed.
Should the less beautiful pay beauty’s meed
Such tribute Joseph’s self must fain accord.
Is not my heart already bound to Thee,
Hence with it from the body? Calm the fears
Of innocence; kindle the lamp that cheers,
And not the blood-red torch of tyranny.
See, Makhfi, from the tempest of my tears
My breast is heaving like a stormy sea.