Hélas

—Why sittest thou, O Muse, in grief enfolden?
—Thou hast me promis’d jewels rich and rare
To wear within my hair;
And for my slaves the kings of kingdoms olden;

And to abide in lofty castles golden,
Because I am most fair.
And lo, I have no sandals for my feet,
And little bread to eat.

Of that far golden Irem I am dreaming,
Whence for few kisses I did follow thee;
Fair is that spot to see,

With far-off waving palms and towers gleaming;
Great deserts round that isle of blissful seeming
Lie stretching endlessly.