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Alcazar

There was a rhapsody in all her moods,

A child-like grace, a passion unrestrained;

Her throne, which bard and saki shared, was stained

With virgin wine as with the blood of feuds;

And in her lyric-woven interludes,

Epitomizing destiny and time,

Her spirit, hid in opalescent rhyme,

The shades of Melancholy still eludes.

Where’er she trod, the rose and bulbul meet;

Where’er she revelled, gardens ever blow;

Where’er she danced, the henna of her feet

Yet lends a lustre to the poppy’s glow;⁠—

Arabia, dark-eyed, light-hearted, fair,

Is but a flower in Andalusia’s hair.