I would my mind were like that garden fair-- A fruitful soil touched by the spade of God! No weeds of prejudice might grow up there, No tares of ignorance disgrace the sod, But Wisdom, glad of such a soil and ground, Would plant her flowers therein--to scatter fragrance round.
It was Spring, joyous Spring, When each bud had just unfolden, From its bursting calyx golden, All the greenery of Spring, When I heard the cuckoo sing, Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!
It was Spring, joyous Spring, When the shepherd on the wold, Having tended well the fold, Saw the meek-eyed ewes well-sheltered ’Gainst the hail and rain that peltered On the downs, in the Spring!
It was Spring, joyous Spring, And the black thorn and the white, Breaking forth from out the night And the dark of Winter’s gloom, Raced the chestnuts into bloom With the leaves, in gentle Spring.
It was Spring, joyous Spring, When from bush and bough and tree Burst a song of joy to Thee, Who hast made the lark that singeth, And the earth whose produce bringeth Forth in Spring: When I heard the cuckoo sing, Cuckoo! cuckoo! cuckoo!
Where the hot sun o’er Caspian’s reedy shore In a red ball of fire descends in gloom, I trod the desert’s silent, sandy floor, Called by the Turkománs the Kizil Koom.
No grass, no flower relieves the rusty sheen, Perhaps an antelope goes rushing through The rare sage-brush; no water there is seen, Save where the fell miráge distracts the view.
And that miráge! At first a little cloud, From which green trees and silvery lakes arise, Where white felucca sails deceive the crowd Of weary travellers, and fool their eyes.
Ah! what art thou, miráge? What have I seen? “I am the many things of which you dream” “At morn of life, but never hold at e’en.” “I am the hopes with which your fancies teem!”
“I am the scholar’s prize, the high degree;” “The sword of steel at side, the fox’s brush;” “The little cross of bronze, the prized V.C.;” “The thundering sound of steeds, the warrior’s rush!”
“I am the heart’s desire, the lover bold;” I am the silken gown, the judge’s chair I am the battle won; the book well sold Coronet; Ermine! Castle in the air!”
Ah! Kizil Koom, Red Sand, what more dost say In thy miráge to travellers o’er thy floor? “I teach content to those who through the way Of life well spent have passed, and dream no more.”