THE GARDEN OF IREM 245 



Mine the music of diamond doors, 

 Turning each on a newer glory : 

 Mine were the roses whose bloom outran 

 The spring-time beauty of Gulistan, 

 And the fabulous flowers of Persian story. 

 Mine were the palms of silver stems, 

 And blazing emerald for diadems ; 

 The fretted arch and the gossamer wreath, 

 So light and frail you feared to breathe ; 

 Yet o'er them rested the pendant spars 

 Of domes bespangled with silver stars, 

 And crusted gems of rare adorning : 

 And ever higher, like a shaft of fire, 

 The lessening links of the golden spire 

 Flamed in the myriad-coloured morning. 



Like one who lies on the marble lip 

 Of the blessed bath in a tranquil rest, 

 And stirs not even a finger's tip 

 Lest the beatific dream should slip, 

 So did I lie in Irem's breast. 

 Sweeter than Life and stronger than Death 

 Was every draught of that blissful breath ; 

 Warmer than summer came its glow 

 To the youthful heart in a mighty flood, 

 And sent its bold and generous blood 

 To water the world in its onward flow. 

 There, where the Garden of Irem lies, 

 Are the roots of the Tree of Paradise, 

 And happy are they who sit below, 

 When into this world of Strife and Death 

 The blossoms are shaken by Allah's breath. 



BAYAKD TAYLOB. 



