Creations of Art

The craftsmen by their tact have built Such works that Eden jealous make: The eyes endowed with sight can see States hid that stir the heart and rake.

There is no self nor usual change Of morn and night at all is found The Muslims have got rid entire Of combats and shun such a round.

Ah! the infidel poor still Pays homage to his idols old Though their broken state he knows, Yet on him they retain their hold.

You are a corpse and your art The leader of your funeral rite In pitch dark bed‐room of the grave, Of life the fellow catches sight.