And bright forms glanced—a fairy show—
Under the blossoms to and fro.
But one, a lone one, midst the throng,
Seem’d reckless all of dance or song:
He was a youth of dusky mien,
Whereon the Indian sun had been,
Of crested brow and long black hair—
A stranger, like the palm-tree, there.
And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes,
Glittering athwart the leafy glooms.