Sunday, January 20, 2013
Euphrates, which is mine, doth flow or not,
There where its mountains feed its rush and roar.
And through those hills and plains by most forgot,
And by these eyes not seen, for evermore
Euphrates swells and rolls majestically,
Or is now dry, and arid myth, a tale.
If this is so, the truth, so let it be.
In me Euphrates is; nor can it fail
To ride its bed and cool its burning earth
With drink, and mine as well. Of wing no flight
May end in graceless crash. No spirit’s mirth
May burn and die by heaven’s harshest light.
Euphrates flows, however it may be
That but in dreams these eyes its grace may see.
San Francisco, California