GRAINS OF SAND
The melon-seller goes to-day in fine red slippers shod;
He spreads his store upon the ground, ripe melons gold and green,
Some arabesqued in spidery white—a breakfast for a god—
Some coloured deep as Chinese jade with slices set between
Of rose-red pulp. The desert blows sand-grains upon his wares
As with black pip and honey juice the passer-by he snares.
He spreads his store upon the ground, ripe melons gold and green,
Some arabesqued in spidery white—a breakfast for a god—
Some coloured deep as Chinese jade with slices set between
Of rose-red pulp. The desert blows sand-grains upon his wares
As with black pip and honey juice the passer-by he snares.
He lifts an orange sackcloth tent betwixt them and the sky,
Then seeks the shelter of the palms and most devoutly prays.
He heard the yellow camels pass, he watched them stringing by;
Perhaps he saw a beckoning hand where one rich burden sways,
Or little hennaed foot look out with jewels on the toes—
There came a whiff of ambergris that on the heart-fire blows.
Then seeks the shelter of the palms and most devoutly prays.
He heard the yellow camels pass, he watched them stringing by;
Perhaps he saw a beckoning hand where one rich burden sways,
Or little hennaed foot look out with jewels on the toes—
There came a whiff of ambergris that on the heart-fire blows.
