Classic Poem

The tavern at the cross-roads of the world
Sleeps in the sun, held by an ancient dream;
Its door of gold, gem-crusted and impearled,
Still welcomes to dim halls the creeping stream
Of wanderers, beggars, princes in disguise,
Lean, sun-bronzed men of steppe and desert seas,
Who rest at last beneath the low, starred skies,
Telling the journey in the tavern's ease.
And what mad storms this later day may send,
What winds of death may rise and smite and weep,
Shall have their way and pass — such is the end
Of storms and even death — nor touch this sleep.
For lo! The tavern, with the door of gold,
Dreams and knows not the thousand tales are told!