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
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