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Farhad,
the Sculptor |
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On
lofty Bisotoun the lingering sun
Looks down on ceaseless labors, long begun; |
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Mountain
trembles to the echoing sound
Of falling rocks that from her sides rebound. |
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Each
day, all respite, all repose, denied,
Without a pause the thundering strokes are piled; |
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The
mist of night around summit coils,
But still Farhad, the lover-artist, toils. |
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And
still, the flashes of his axe between,
He sighs to every wind, "Alas, Shirin!" |
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A
hundred arms are weak one block to move
Of thousands molded by the hand of love |
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Into
fantastic shapes and forms of grace,
That crowd each nook of that majestic place. |
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The
piles give way, rocky peaks divide,
The stream comes gushing on, a foaming tide,- |
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A
mighty work for ages to remain,
The token of his passion and his pain. |
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As
flows the milky flood from God's throne,
Rushes the torrent from the yielding stone. |
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And,
sculptured there, amazed, stern Khosro stands,
And frowning seas obeyed his harsh commands: |
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While
she, the fair beloved, with being rife,
Awakes from glowing marble into life. |
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O
hapless youth? O toil repaid by woe!
A king thy rival, and the world thy foe. |
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Will
she wealth, splendor, pomp, for thee resign,
And only genius, truth, and passion thine? |
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Around
the pair, lo! chiseled courtiers wait,
And slaves and pages grouped in solemn state; |
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From
columns imaged wreaths their garlands throw,
And fretted roofs with stars appear to glow: |
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Fresh
leaves and blossoms seem around to spring,
And feathered throngs their loves seem murmuring. |
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Hands
of Peris might have wrought these stems
where dew-drops hang their fragile diadems, |
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And
strings of pearl and sharp-cut diamonds shine,
New from the wave, or recent from the mine. |
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"Alas,
Shirin!" at every stroke he cries,
A every stroke fresh miracles arise. |
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"For
thee my life one ceaseless toil has been;
Inspire my soul anew, alas, Shirin!" |
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