Of Styx, and all that grief that lies below.
“Farewell,” I sighed, “Fiammetta!” But she, “Not so!
What life is thine? Perchance we meet again!”
HAROUN AL RASCHID.
Golden pride and fragrant light
Are mine, and thereto was I born;
Thronéd pomp is mine of right,
Robes bestarred, or like the morn;
All words of pearl to me belong