When I rode out of Ispahan
A thousand years ago,
My horse’s hoofs were shod with gold,
My turban rolled with gems untold,
And the people louted low.
My poet rode along with me
And sang of old Irán,
Of Rustem and of Rudabeh,
And whiled away the summer day
As only poets can.
But now I march the Persian road
With the devil of a pack;
The jackals howl as we go by,
And the fellows sigh and curse and cry,
And my clothes are like a sack.
And the palaces of Ispahan
Are full of owls and bats,
And the truest poet that ever I knew,
Whose roses grew in the Syrian dew,
Lies dead at Davos Platz.