The Magician
“Swallows to the loggia! to the garden, roses!”
He speaks, and the rough hedge at his sweet word
bursts into bloom, and the air resounds with wings.
Other the wise one could, this he preferred;
content, if for him earth smells, for him sky sings:
his envoys to his native East he brings,
the crown he weaves on golden head reposes.
He speaks, and the rough hedge at his sweet word
bursts into bloom, and the air resounds with wings.
Other the wise one could, this he preferred;
content, if for him earth smells, for him sky sings:
his envoys to his native East he brings,
the crown he weaves on golden head reposes.
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