You cities of Euphrates,
You streets at Palmyra,
You forests of pillars in the desert plain,
What are you?
Your crests, as you passed beyond
The bounds of those who breathe,
By smoke of heavenly powers and
By fire were taken away;
But now I sit beneath clouds, in which
Peculiar quiet comes to each one, beneath
A pleasing order of oak trees, on
The heath where the roe-deer feed, and strange
To me, remote and dead seem
The souls of the blessèd.
trns. by M. Hamburger
