A certain Pasha, dead these thousand years,
Once from his harem fled, in sudden tears,
And had this sentence on the city's gate
Deeply engraven: "Only God is great!"
So those four words, above the city's noise,
Hung like the accents of an angel's voice.
And evermore, from the high barbican,
Saluted each returning caravan.
Lost is that city's glory. Every gust
Lifts, with crisp leaves, the unknown Pasha's
dust,
And all is ruined—save one wrinkled gate,
Whereon is written: "Only God is great!"
