Epthatha
For miles beyond the orange river
The olive orchards gleam and shiver,
And, at the river's brink as pale.
The ranks of moonlit rushes quiver.
And somewhere in a hidden vale
The unseen and secret nightingale
Her olden woe doth still deliver,
Though all the orchards know the tale.
magic of the South ! Whenever
Your sweet dissolving breezes sever
About my heart the bands of mail,
I too would sing, and sing for ever!
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