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But then they have no ruby fruits, no flowers Shining in purple, and no lighted mines Of gold and diamond. Which is the best,— Beauty and glory, in a southern clime, Mingled with thunder, tempest; or the calm Of skies that scarcely change, which, at the least, If much of shine they have not, have no storms? I know not: but I know fair earth or sky Are self-consuming in their loveliness, And the too radiant sun and fertile soil In their luxuriance run themselves to waste, And the green valley and the silver stream Become a sandy desert. Oh! the mind, Too vivid in its lighted energies, May read its fate in sunny Araby. How lives its beauty in each Eastern tale,