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 "Here in my tent is a couch prepared for thee, Rest thou awhile and slumber, awaiting me." Kindly he spoke, when the weary march was done And the camp-smoke rose across the setting sun.

Down I lay in the shadow; I did not see That cactus thorns were the couch prepared for me. Ah, the pain of that feverish, endless night, And the fainting sleep that came with morning light.

Waking I found myself on the soft warm sands, While he withdrew the thorns with remorseful hands, Saying, "Forgive me again, and thou shalt rest To-night, as thou desirest, against my breast."

Strange and sweet were the ways where his fancy trod, A panther's fierceness linked to dreams of a God, Passion, wild as the Desert, in strength and power, Lips as soft and fresh as the touch of a flower.

These were his gifts of atonement through the night. These, with persuasive words that enhanced delight, And strange, sad songs and legends, which left his eyes Aglow with the fire of sombre memories.

One still night, on the breast of a starry sea, "Row, till I bid thee cease," he ordered me. The skin wore through, and the paddle ends were red, Before, when the sunrise came, the word was said.

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