ITER PERSICUM
Reading edition
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.