Ода Делии

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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.

*

Delia, An Ode Robert Burns