O’er Judah’s hills; and wheresoe’er the leaves
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive boughs,
With their cool dimness, cross’d the sultry blue
Of Syria’s heaven, she paused, that he might rest;
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep
That weigh’d their dark fringe down, to sit and watch
The crimson deepening o’er his cheek’s repose,
As at a red flower’s heart. And where a fount
Lay, like a twilight star, midst palmy shades,