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The Poet

THE POET

In lands of East, the bed of reeds
For pipe, the breath of minstrel needs
O poet, let me this much know,
"If you have breath in breast, or no?

If nation's Self grows too much weak
By chains of bondage and much meek
It need not hear the Persian strains,
For these will only add to pains.

If flask of glass shines like the day,
Or is a pitcher made from clay:
Like sharpness of a sword of steel
To palate must its relish feel.

There is no land or home on earth
Beneath this spinning azure dome,
Where one without great stress and strain
The thrones of Jam and Kai may gain.

On Love's way numerous Mounts Sinai appear
God manifests Himself so clear
May stage of Love for ever last,
And may not come to end too ‘fast!



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