| |
| A SILVER javelin which the hills | |
| Have hurled upon the plain below, | |
| The fleetest of the Pharpar’s rills, | |
| Beneath me shoots in flashing flow. | |
| |
| I hear the never-ending laugh | 5 |
| Of jostling waves that come and go, | |
| And suck the bubbling pipe, and quaff | |
| The sherbet cooled in mountain snow. | |
| |
| The flecks of sunshine gleam like stars | |
| Beneath the canopy of shade; | 10 |
| And in the distant, dim bazaars | |
| I scarcely hear the hum of trade. | |
| |
| No evil fear, no dream forlorn, | |
| Darkens my heaven of perfect blue; | |
| My blood is tempered to the morn,— | 15 |
| My very heart is steeped in dew. | |
| |
| What Evil is I cannot tell; | |
| But half I guess what Joy may be; | |
| And, as a pearl within its shell, | |
| The happy spirit sleeps in me. | 20 |
| |
| I feel no more the pulse’s strife,— | |
| The tides of Passion’s ruddy sea,— | |
| But live the sweet, unconscious life | |
| That breathes from yonder jasmine-tree. | |
| |
| Upon the glittering pageantries | 25 |
| Of gay Damascus’ streets I look | |
| As idly as a babe that sees | |
| The painted pictures of a book. | |
| |
| Forgotten now are name and race; | |
| The Past is blotted from my brain; | 30 |
| For Memory sleeps, and will not trace | |
| The weary pages o’er again. | |
| |
| I only know the morning shines, | |
| And sweet the dewy morning air; | |
| But does it play with tendrilled vines, | 35 |
| Or does it lightly lift my hair? | |
| |
| Deep-sunken in the charmed repose, | |
| This ignorance is bliss extreme; | |
| And whether I be Man, or Rose, | |
| O, pluck me not from out my dream! | 40 |
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