I sailed too long over that monstered ocean Ever to grapple with the sinews of an emotion Like this slave-girl's. If I could wipe the must From the mildewed jars of devilry, and the rust Off my lip, the taste of red preserves Of love would be as honied as one deserves Who lusted with wormwood and with sickening myrrh, Buried with a magic wife. May Allah keep her And other wives from me. But this young slave -- For the Caliph? Well, only her thin mouth to save My soul I can't forget, nor her slack eyes: The oasis of age is sand and lies. She's just a fancy . . . Now the Roc was mad, As I was saying; trickery, the one weapon I had, Led me to a blind valley; I clung to its leg And that undid me, nearly -- yes, I beg Pardon -- I'll go on -- unity I don't pretend. Ah, give that beggar sequins without end! . . . But the Roc . . . | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A VALEDICTION: OF MY NAME IN THE WINDOW by JOHN DONNE LOVE-LILY by DANTE GABRIEL ROSSETTI MAN FRAIL AND GOD ETERNAL by ISAAC WATTS TO HIS INGENIOUS FRIEND, MR. N. TATE by PHILIP AYRES PETITION OF A SCHOOLBOY TO HIS FATHER by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD EVENING SOLACE by CHARLOTTE BRONTE |