Thomas Moore

Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, drop
About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food
Whose read more

Those golden birds that, in the spice-time, drop
About the gardens, drunk with that sweet food
Whose scent hath lur'd them o'er the summer flood;
And those that under Araby's soft sun
Build their high nests of budding cinnamon.

Rich and rare were the gems she wore,
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore.

Rich and rare were the gems she wore,
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore.

With what a deep devotedness of woe
I wept thy absence--o'er and o'er again
Thinking of thee, read more

With what a deep devotedness of woe
I wept thy absence--o'er and o'er again
Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain,
And memory, like a drop that, night and day,
Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away!

Bastard Freedom waves
Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves.

Bastard Freedom waves
Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves.

And soon, too soon, we part with pain,
To sail o'er silent seas again.

And soon, too soon, we part with pain,
To sail o'er silent seas again.