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[300] O mariners, hoping still to meet
     The luck Arabian voyagers met,
And find in Bagdad's moonlit street,
     Haroun al Raschid walking yet,

Take with you, on your Sea of Dreams,
     The fair, fond fancies dear to youth.
I turn from all that only seems,
     And seek the sober grounds of truth.

What matter that it is not May,
     That birds have flown, and trees are bare.
That darker grows the shortening day,
     And colder blows the wintry air!

The wrecks of passion and desire,
     The castles I no more rebuild,
May fitly feed my drift-wood fire,
     And warm the hands that age has chilled.

Whatever perished with my ships,
     I only know the best remains;
A song of praise is on my lips
     For losses which are now my gains.

Heap high my hearth! No worth is lost;
     No wisdom with the folly dies.
Burn on, poor shreds, your holocaust
     Shall be my evening sacrifice!

Far more than all I dared to dream,
     Unsought before my door I see;
On wings of fire and steeds of steam
     The world's great wonders come to me,

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