And there they placed a peacock in his pride, Before the damsel.

For everything seemed resting on his nod, As they could read in all eyes. Now to them, Who were accustomed, as a sort of god, To see the sultan, rich in many a gem, Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad (That royal bird, whose tail's a diadem,) With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt How power could condescend to do without.

The shell must break before the bird can fly.

And so the Word had breath, and wrought/ With human hands the creed of creeds/ In loveliness of perfect deeds,/ More strong than all poetic thought.

Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.

Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?