A Poem by George Meredith. ,
Sadder than is the moon's lost light
Lost ere the kindling of dawn,
To travellers journeying on,
The shutting of thy fair face from my sight.
Might I look on thee in death,
With bliss I would yield my breath.
Oh! what warrior dies
With heaven in his eyes?
O Bhanavar! too rich a prize!
The life of my nostrils art thou,
The balm-dew on my brow;
Thou art the perfume I meet as I speed o'er the plains,
The strength of my arms, the blood of my veins.
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