To Abu’l-Ala

In thy melancholy’s pensive Fancy Wisdom rolled its beauteous stars and moons, Just as in my riotings of pleasure Thy lone midnights roll into my noons. Abu’l-Ala, in thy glorious darkness Didst thou not remember unborn me? In thy journey to the farthest planets Didst thou not a burdened shadow see? Ay, behind the portals of Saturnus Secretly the cup to thee I passed; Long, long after this cup thou returnest Filled with gems of fancy and recast. In thy Prison a thousand Yamen weapons Thou didst forge for the oppressed and weak: In my attic a thousand Beauty roses I pluck for thee from a Yankee cheek.