By

H. Rider Haggard and Andrew Lang

Come with us, ye whose hearts are set On this, the Present to forget; Come read the things whereof ye know They were not, and could not be so! The murmur of the fallen creeds, Like winds among wind-shaken reeds Along the banks of holy Nile, Shall echo in your ears the while; The fables of the North and South Shall mingle in a modern mouth; The fancies of the West and East Shall flock and flit about the feast Like doves that cooled, with waving wing, The banquets of the Cyprian king.  Old shapes of song that do not die Shall haunt the halls of memory, And though the Bow shall prelude clear Shrill as the song of Gunnar’s spear, There answer sobs from lute and lyre That murmured of The World’s Desire.

     There lives no man but he hath seen
     The World’s Desire, the fairy queen. 
     None but hath seen her to his cost,
     Not one but loves what he has lost. 
     None is there but hath heard her sing
     Divinely through his wandering;
     Not one but he has followed far
     The portent of the Bleeding Star;
     Not one but he hath chanced to wake,
     Dreamed of the Star and found the Snake. 
     Yet, through his dreams, a wandering fire,
     Still, still she flits, the world’s desire!