LXXXV
And all my years, as vapid as my lay,
Are bitter morsels of a mystic day,—
The day of Fate, who carries in his lap
December snows and snow-white flowers of May.
LXXXVI
Allah, my sleep is woven through, it seems,
With burning threads of night and golden beams;
But when my dreams are evil they come true;
When they are not, they are, alas! but dreams.
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