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A brow like twilight's darkening line, An eye like morning's first sunshine, Now glancing through the veil of dreams As sudden light at daybreak streams. And richer than the mingled shade By gem, and gold, and purple made, His orient wings closed o'er his head; Like that bird's, bright with every dye, Whose home, as Persian bards have said, Is fixed in scented Araby. Some dream is passing o'er him now— A sudden flush is on his brow; And from his lip come murmured words, Low, but sweet as the light lute chords When o'er its strings the night-winds glide To woo the roses by its side.