The Miráge on Kizil Koom.

Where the hot sun o’er Caspian’s reedy shore In a red ball of fire descends in gloom, I trod the desert’s silent, sandy floor, Called by the Turkománs the Kizil Koom. No grass, no flower relieves the rusty sheen, Perhaps an antelope goes rushing through The rare sage-brush; no water there is seen, Save where the fell miráge distracts the view. And that miráge! At first a little cloud, From which green trees and silvery lakes arise, Where white felucca sails deceive the crowd Of weary travellers, and fool their eyes. Ah! what art thou, miráge? What have I seen? “I am the many things of which you dream” “At morn of life, but never hold at e’en.” “I am the hopes with which your fancies teem!” “I am the scholar’s prize, the high degree;” “The sword of steel at side, the fox’s brush;” “The little cross of bronze, the prized V.C.;” “The thundering sound of steeds, the warrior’s rush!” “I am the heart’s desire, the lover bold;” I am the silken gown, the judge’s chair I am the battle won; the book well sold Coronet; Ermine! Castle in the air!” Ah! Kizil Koom, Red Sand, what more dost say In thy miráge to travellers o’er thy floor? “I teach content to those who through the way Of life well spent have passed, and dream no more.”