Here in the teeming city's very heart
There is a place, where he who enters in
May shut away the tumult and the din
Of strife for bread, and bide awhile apart.
For here the masters of a mighty art,
With all their store of treasure, wait our will,
And in their presence, so benign and still,
Our clamorous cares grow silent and depart.

The fragrance of the past is everywhere:
Sun-burnt Morocco and the Orient
Have lent their treasures worthily to dress
Wisdom profound and fancies heavenly-fair,
Garnered in bygone years from lives long spent
Yet living thus in all their loveliness.