Within the burnished banquet room there sings
The fountain of the harem pure and clear,
Just as of old it sang in twilights drear.
But whither love and fame speed—on what wings?
When all things else must perish these endure!
Yet both are gone! The fountain ripples pure.
BAKTSCHI SERAI BY NIGHT
From out the mosques the pious wend their way;
Muezzin voices tremble through the night;
Within the sky the pallid King of Light
Wraps silvered ermine round him while he may,
And Heaven's harem greets its star array.
One lone white cloud rests in the azure height—
A veiled court lady in some sorrow's plight—
Whom cruel love and day have cast away.
The mosques stand there; and here tall cypress trees;
There—mountains, towering, black as demons frown,
Which Lucifer in rage from God cast down.
Like sword blades lightning flickers over these,
And on an Arab steed the wild Khan rides
Who goes to Baktschi Serai which night hides.
THE GRAVE OF COUNTESS POTOCKA
In Spring of love and life, My Polish Rose,
You faded and forgot the joy of youth;
Bright butterfly, it brushed you, then left ruth
Of bitter memory that stings and glows.
O Stars! that seek a path my northland knows,
How dare you now on Poland shine forsooth,
When she who loved you and lent you her youth
Sleeps where beneath the wind the long grass blows?