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 Far are the shades of Arabia, 
Where the Princes ride at noon, 
'Mid the verdurous vales and thickets, 
Under the ghost of the moon; 
And so dark is that vaulted purple 
Flowers in the forest rise 
And toss into blossom 'gainst the phantom stars 
Pale in the noonday skies.
Sweet is the music of Arabia In my heart, when out of dreams I still in the thin clear mirk of dawn Descry her gliding streams; Hear her strange lutes on the green banks Ring loud with the grief and delight Of the dim-silked, dark-haired Musicians In the brooding silence of night.
They haunt me -- her lutes and her forests; No beauty on earth I see But shadowed with that dream recalls Her loveliness to me: Still eyes look coldly upon me, Cold voices whisper and say -- 'He is crazed with the spell of far Arabia, They have stolen his wits away.

Poem by Walter De La Mare
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