While the marsh mist, slowly rising, shrouds the greenery of the glade.
Redly still the day is dying, as if o'er the desert waste,
And we pictured camels, Arabs, and the solemn outline traced
Of a pillared lonely Fane, clear against the crimson rim,
Voiceless, but of empire telling, and the lore of ages dim.
Low the deep voice of the ocean, whispering to the silent strand;
Gleam the stars, in silver ripples; stretches broad the milk-white sand;
And a long, low bark is lying underneath the island shore
Weird and dream-like, darksome, soundless, spell-struck now, and evermore.
Deeper, darker fall the shadows, and the charmed colours wane,