To a Young Poet

The camel at the city-gate
Bends his flat head, and there must wait.
Thin in the desert is the palm,
And pierced the thorn to give its balm.
The Land of Promise thou shalt see,
I swear it, by myself and thee;
Rise, cheer thee up, and look around,
All earth is not for deer and hound;
Worms revel in the slime of kings,
But perish where the laurel springs.
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