London 1901
To Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton, K.C.M.G., H.B.M. CONSUL, TRIESTE. My Dear Burton, I give myself the pleasure of placing your name in the forefront of another and final volume of my translation of the Thousand and One Nights, which, if it have brought me no other good, has at least been the means of procuring me your friendship. Believe me, Yours always, John Payne.
Twelve years this day,—a day of winter, dreary With drifting snows, when all the world seemed dead To Spring and hope,—it is since, worn and weary Of doubt within and strife without, I fled From the mean workday miseries of existence, From spites that slander and from hates that lie, Into the dreamland of the Orient distance Under the splendours of the Syrian sky, And in the enchanted realms of Eastern story, Far from the lovelessness of modern times, Garnered the rainbow-remnants of old glory That linger yet in those ancestral climes; And now, the tong task done, the journey over, From that far home of immemorial calms, Where, as a mirage, on the sky-marge hover The desert and its oases of palms, Lingering, I turn me back, with eyes reverted To this stepmother world of daily life, As one by some long pleasant dream deserted, That wakes anew to dull unlovely strife: Yet, if non' other weal the quest have wrought me. The long beloved labour now at end, This gift of gifts the untravelled East hath brought me, The knowledge of a new and valued friend. 5th Feb. 1889.
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