Here is no joy, to gleam like jewelled waters
Of those blue lakes that desert-goers find,
No little rain of peace, no dew of dreaming,
No chalice for the thirsting of my mind.
Bold and blue, the mirage of many palm trees,
Of mocking fountains, grows and glimmers nigh.
I stumble, clutch at ghostly sapphires, waken
Blind in the sand, with lips and fingers dry.
Are you indeed a guarded city? Wander
Old wisdoms and young ardours in your street?
Does ever Pity, in some fragrant courtyard,
Unloose the sandals from the traveller