Classic Poem

Made smooth some centuries ago
By praying Eastern devotees,
Blurred by those dusky naked feet,
And somewhat worn by shuffling knees,
In Ispahan,

It lies upon my modern floor,
And no one prays there any more.
It never felt the worldly tread
Of smart bottines heeled and red,
In Ispahan.

And no one prays there now, I said?
Ah well, that was a hasty word,
Once, with my face upon its woof,
A fiercer prayer it never heard
In Ispahan.

But still I live who prayed that night
That death might come ere came the light.
Did any soul in black despair
Breathe, kneeling here, that reckless prayer
In Ispahan?

Perhaps. I trust that Heaven lent
A kinder ear than late to me,
If some brown ancient, weeping, begged
To have his suffering soul set free
In Ispahan.

I fancy I shall like to meet
The dead who prayed here, and whose feet
Once made this rich old carpet frayed.
Peace to your souls, my friends, who prayed
In Ispahan!