Fly to the desert, fly with me,
Our Arab tents are rude for thee;
But, oh! the choice what heart can doubt
Of tents with love, or thrones without?

Our rocks are rough, but smiling there
The' acacia waves her yellow hair,
Lonely and sweet, nor lov'd the less
For flow'ring in the wilderness.

 ... 

Then come — thy Arab maid will be
The lov'd and lone acacia-tree,
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.

 ... 

So came thy ev'ry glance and tone
When first on me they breath'd and shone;
New, as if brought from other spheres,
Yet welcome as if lov'd for years.

Then fly with me, — if thou hast known
No other flame, nor falsely thrown
A gem away, that thou hadst sworn
Should ever in thy heart be worn.

Then come — thy Arab maid will be
The lov'd and lone acacia-tree,
The antelope, whose feet shall bless
With their light sound thy loneliness.

 ...