—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.