Poems by Adam Bernard Mickiewicz

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The mighty mountain flings its mist-veil down;
The drooping, weary day night pushed aside;
In ruin are the spacious, splendid halls
From out the mosques the pious wend their way;
Give wings unto the storm, and spurs to steed,
The flag is listless, limp. It dances not.
On Juda's Cliff I love to lean and look
Across sea-meadows measureless I go,
In Spring of love and life, My Polish Rose,
They sleep well here whom Allah loved and kept
Oh, thankless Crimean land! in ruin laid
The reverent Mussulman bends low to greet
Below me half a world I see outspread;