| BY feathers green, across Casbeen | | | The pilgrims track the Phoenix flown, | | | By gems he strew'd in waste and wood, | | | And jewell'd plumes at random thrown. | | | | | Till wandering far, by moon and star, | 5 | | They stand beside the fruitful pyre, | | | Where breaking bright with sanguine light | | | The impulsive bird forgets his sire. | | | | | Those ashes shine like ruby wine, | | | Like bag of Tyrian murex spilt, | 10 | | The claw, the jowl of the flying fowl | | | Are with the glorious anguish gilt. | | | | | So rare the light, so rich the sight, | | | Those pilgrim men, on profit bent, | | | Drop hands and eyes and merchandise, | 15 | | And are with gazing most content. | |
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