At sight of Othman in the vale below,
And shook his hand at him, and said aloud:
"'Thou black-browed son of Islam, go thy way,
For 'tis the fool's, and thou becomest it,
A torch not more the night. Thou not to know
That every sense we have is but a gate,
An airy gate on downy hinges hung,
For Love to come and go! Keep the way; pave
It end to end with fantasies in rhyme,
And dreams of Allah, and Edebali,
And Malkatoon, and, with thy comrade fools,
Chatter and sing, and plague the fainting sky
With beat of drums and flaunt of flags; nor leave
Behind the combings of the Wilderness
Thou callest thy Tribe. And I will to the cave;
And should the Dervish give the girl to me,
Vex not the sun or moon or tender stars
With antics of a child. I had not loved
Her but for thee.'
"Then to the cave he sped
With might of galloping,
"A thousand knights
In gold-gilt steel, and girt with belts of gold,
And trebly proud of azure blades, new moons
In curvature, and casting brightness far
As stars ablaze in cold Caucasian skies,
Held all the space about the beaten road
Uptrending to the leafy door; their tents
Enwhitened linen circling one of silk
Capacious as a field, and dyed in green
And purple, graceful as a peacock's neck,
And full as iridescent; and the air
Above the camp was glorified with flags
And bannerets, one richer than the rest,
And heavy with symbolic broidery,
Bespeaking old Iran. Yet, passion-mad,
The Lord of Eskischeer thrust through the maze
Of martial splendor.
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