So, again and again,
Hath a phantom city thrust to the visionary vault
Of inviolate cobalt, dome and dreaming minaret
Mosque and gleaming water-tower hazy in a fountain's jet
Or a market's rising dust; and my lips have cried aloud
To see them tremble there, though I knew within my heart
They were chiselled out of cloud or carven of thin air;
And my fingers clenched my hand, for I wondered if this land
Of my stony pilgrimage were a glimmering mirage,
And I myself no more than a phantom of the sand.