The Real.

                    They say
A certain flower that blooms forever
          In sunnier skies,
Is called the amaranth. They say it never
          Withers away or dies, --
               I never saw one.

                    They say
A bird of foreign lands, -- the condor,
          Never alights,
But through the air unceasingly will wander,
          In long, aerial flights, --
               I never saw one.

                     They say
That in Egyptian deserts, massive,
          Half buried in the sands,
Swept by the hot sirocco, grand, impassive,
          The statue of colossal Memnon stands, --
               I never saw it.

                    They say
A land faultless, far off, and fairy,
          A summer land, with woods and glens and
Is seen where palms rise feathery and airy,
          And from whose lawns the sunlight never
            fades, --
               I never saw it.

                    They say
The stars make melody sonorous
          While whirling on their poles;
They say through space an interstellar chorus
          Magnificently rolls, --
               I never heard it.

                    Now what
Care I for amaranth or condor,
          Colossal Memnon, or the fairy land,
Or for the songs of planets as they wander
          Through arcs superlatively grand? --
               They are not real.

                    Hope's idle
Dreams the Real vainly follows,
          Facts stay as fadeless as the Parthenon
While fancies, like the smoky-tinted swallows,
          Flit gaily mid its arches and are gone.

Divider line of thick olive-green leaves

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