Diary.
The Sultan revelled in the gay kiosque,
Where Ganges’ waters to the morning rolled,
Quaffing the snow-cool wine from cups of gold;
A humble Dervish prayed in the lone mosque—
“Prophet of God!” with fervor deep, he cried,
“Grant me a token that my prayer is heard!”
He raised his eye, and lo! a lovely bird
Upon a pillar’s marble crown he spied;
No fairer warbler, from the Swerga-bowers,