Deem ye the veiling vision will abide—
The marvel, and the glamor, and the dream
Which lies in light upon the barren world ? . . .

The wings of Phoenix towering to the sun,
Nor opals, nor the morning foam, may hold
The hueful light that as from faery moons
Is mirrored on the sand; where many a time,
From fields that hem with golden asphodel
A river like a dragon coiled in light,
Rise to the noon the hovering minarets
And soaring walls of cities Ilion-like,
Till the dim winds are hung with palaces
Of orient madreperl.

For ever lost—
Like sunset on a land of old romance—
The splendor fails, and leaves the traveller
In bournless deserts flaunting to the day.