William Saroyan: To the River Euphrates

 

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

January 21, 1933