XII

As with the quintessence of flame,

A million tapers flaring bright

From twisted silvers look'd to shame

The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd

Upon the mooned domes aloof

In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd

Hundreds of crescents on the roof

      Of night new-risen, that marvellous time,

      To celebrate the golden prime

            Of good Haroun Alraschid.