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C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

From ‘Faris’

By Adam Mickiewicz (1798–1855)

From the ‘Poets and Poetry of Poland,’ edited by Paul Soboleski

NO palms are seen with their green hair,

Nor white-crested desert tents are there;

But his brow is shaded by the sky

That flingeth aloft its canopy;

The mighty rocks lay now at rest,

And the stars move slowly on heaven’s breast.


MY Arab steed is black—

Black as the tempest cloud that flies

Across the dark and muttering skies,

And leaves a gloomy track.

His hoofs are shod with lightning’s glare,

I give the winds his flowing mane,

And spur him smoking o’er the plain,

And none from earth or heaven dare,

My path to chase in vain.

And as my barb like lightning flies,

I gaze upon the moonlit skies,

And see the stars with golden eyes,

Look down upon the plain.