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sun is sinking over Africa; And under shadowy native eaves reclines A traveller upon a fur-strewn floor; One whom no years' ignoble rust, but high And holy toil have wasted; bearded grey, In wayworn English garb he seems array'd; His shoulders bow'd as from a life's long burden; His rude wan countenance profoundly scarr'd With noble ruin wrought by Love and Sorrow. Reclined against the dwelling's claybuilt wall, His falcon eyes explore the moonèd East.