Although I have not seen thee face to face, Nor haply shall, strange world of all my dreams, Yet, when I read this book, it ever seems As though I knew thee and had leave to pace Through fancy's faith, born of the writer's grace, Toward the city of roses and wide streams Beneath the purple mountain crag that gleams 'Gainst the red sunset in a desert place, Till through an eastward gate I pass into A world of women veiled and silent men, A white and ghostly world, stiller than thought, Where never voice or music sounds save when Some plague-stained bier is hurried out of view, Or the last slave-bride to her lord is brought. |