Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/29

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Darkling and green, with just a space For the stars to shine on the water’s face, A small bark lay, waiting for night And its breeze to waft and hide its flight. Sweet is the burthen, and lovely the freight, For which those furled-up sails await, To a garden, fair as those Where the glory of the rose Blushes, charmed from the decay That wastes other blooms away; Gardens of the fairy tale Told, till the wood-fire grows pale, By the Arab tribes, when night, With its dim and lovely light, And its silence, suiteth well With the magic tales they tell.