WHEN the Sultan Shah-Zaman
Goes to the city Ispahan,
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GOOD-NIGHT! I have to say good-night
To such a host of peerless things!
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MASKS
BLACK Tragedy lets slip her grim disguise
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WIDE open and unguarded stand our gates,
Named of the four winds, North, South, East, and West;
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THOUGH gifts like thine the fates gave not to me,
One thing, O Hafiz, we both hold in fee—
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ENAMOURED ARCHITECT OF AIRY RHYME
ENAMOURED architect of airy rhyme,
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NOT with slow, funereal sound
Come we to this sacred ground;
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TO the sea-shell’s spiral round
’T is your heart that brings the sound:
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The first world-sound that fell upon my ear
Was that of the great winds along the coast
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The new moon hung in the sky, the sun was low in the west,
And my betrothed and I in the churchyard paused to rest--
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It was with doubt and trembling
I whispered in her ear.
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When the Sultan Shah-Zaman Goes to the city Ispahan,
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A man should live in a garret aloof, And have few friends, and go poorly clad,
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I know not in what fashion she was made,
Nor what her voice was, when she used to speak,
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Close on the edge of a midsummer dawn
In troubled dreams I went from land to land,
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I.
When all the panes are hung with frost,
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If thy soul, Herrick, dwelt with me,
This is what my songs would be:
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Three roses, wan as moonlight, and weighed down
Each with its loveliness as with a crown,
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Here, in the twilight, at the well-known gate
I linger, with no heart to enter more.
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A soldier of the Cromwell stamp,
With sword and psalm-book by his side,
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Forever am I conscious, moving here,
That should I step a little space aside
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While yet my lip was breathing youth's first breath,
I all too young to know their deepest spell,
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Thou singest by the gleaming isles,
By woods, and fields of corn,
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Who is Lydia, pray, and who
Is Hypatia? Softly, dear,
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Herewith I send you three pressed withered flowers:
This one was white, with golden star; this, blue
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Restless the Northern Bear amid his snows
Crouched by the Neva; menacing is France,
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Though I am native to this frozen zone
That half the twelvemonth torpid lies, or dead;
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They never crowned him, never dreamed his worth,
And let him go unlaurelled to the grave:
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The sky is gray as gray may be,
There is no bird upon the bough,
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Like Crusoe, walking by the lonely strand
And seeing a human footprint on the sand,
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