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The one like evening crimson bright, The other fill'd with such clear light, That, as she bent her o'er the strings, Catching music's wanderings, Look'd she well some Peri fair, Born and being of the air. Waked the guitar beneath her hand To ballad of her Spanish land; Sad, but yet suiting twilight pale, When surely tenderest thoughts prevail.

, fling from thy braided hair The red rose-bud that is wreathed there; For he who planted the parent tree Is now what soon that blossom will be.