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THE HASHISH-EATER
And monstrous alabraundines, won from warWith realms of hostile serpents; which arise,Combustible, in vapours many-hued,And myrrh-excelling perfumes. It is I,The king, who holds with scepter-dropping handThe helm of some great barge of chrysolite,Sailing upon an amethystine seaTo isles of timeless summer: For the snowsOf hyperborean winter, and their winds,Sleep in his jewel-builded capital,Nor any charm of flame-wrought wizardry,Nor conjured suns may rout them; so he flees,With captive kings to urge his serried oars,Hopeful of dales where amaranthine dawnHath never left the faintly sighing loteAnd fields of lisping moly. Or I fare,Impanoplied with azure diamond,As hero of a quest Achernar lights,To deserts filled with ever-wandering flames,That feed upon the sullen marl, and soarTo wrap the slopes of mountains, and to leap,With tongues intolerably lengthening,That lick the blenchèd heavens. But there lives(Secure as in a garden walled from wind)A lonely flower by a placid well,Midmost the flaring tumult of the flames,That roar as roars the storm-possessèd sea,Impacable forever: And withinThat simple grail the blossom lifts, there liesOne drop of an incomparable dew,Which heals the parchèd weariness of kings,And cures the wound of wisdom. I am pageTo an emperor who reigns ten thousand years,And through his labyrinthine palace-rooms,Through courts and colonnades and balconiesWherein immensity itself is mazed,I seek the golden gorget he hath lost,On which the names of his conniving stars
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