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[112] That down the hush of Syrian skies
     Some sweet-voiced saint at twilight sings
The song whose holy symphonies
     Are beat by unseen wings;

Till starting from his sandy bed,
     The wayworn wanderer looks to see
The halo of an angel's head
     Shine through the tamarisk-tree.

So through the shadows of my way
     Thy smile hath fallen soft and clear,
So at the weary close of day
     Hath seemed thy voice of cheer.

That pilgrim pressing to his goal
     May pause not for the vision's sake,
Yet all fair things within his soul
     The thought of it shall wake:

The graceful palm-tree by the well,
     Seen on the far horizon's rim;
The dark eyes of the fleet gazelle,
     Bent timidly on him;

Each pictured saint, whose golden hair
     Streams sunlike through the convent's gloom;
Pale shrines of martyrs young and fair,
     And loving Mary's tomb;

And thus each tint or shade which falls,
     From sunset cloud or waving tree,
Along my pilgrim path, recalls
     The pleasant thought of thee.

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