GRAINS OF SAND
147
I know the melon-seller dreams; he goes barefoot no more.
His turban shows a gleaming stone, he smells of orange flowers,
The muslins of his flowing dress are whiter than before.
Instead of hawking melons now he muses through the hours;
He gazes where the blue skies meet the brown walls of the khan,
And always through his dream he hears a tinkling caravan.
His turban shows a gleaming stone, he smells of orange flowers,
The muslins of his flowing dress are whiter than before.
Instead of hawking melons now he muses through the hours;
He gazes where the blue skies meet the brown walls of the khan,
And always through his dream he hears a tinkling caravan.
Did it come from Arabia with cinnamons and gum?
Did it rock in from Kandahar with jars of liquid flame?
With willow wands and Persian silks and ambers did it come?
It does not matter what the route—he only knows it came.
To-night it rests within the khan. There is no moon to light
The little window in the wall—much may be done tonight.
Did it rock in from Kandahar with jars of liquid flame?
With willow wands and Persian silks and ambers did it come?
It does not matter what the route—he only knows it came.
To-night it rests within the khan. There is no moon to light
The little window in the wall—much may be done tonight.
For when the melon-seller moved to where the shadows lie
I saw the ridge beneath his robe a hidden weapon made.
There came the flapping of the wings of vultures down the sky;
Perhaps they guessed the uses of a blue Damascus blade.
Oh, is it for a hidden sheik or for himself he woos?
Was it blood-money or a theft that bought a bare man shoes?
I saw the ridge beneath his robe a hidden weapon made.
There came the flapping of the wings of vultures down the sky;
Perhaps they guessed the uses of a blue Damascus blade.
Oh, is it for a hidden sheik or for himself he woos?
Was it blood-money or a theft that bought a bare man shoes?
