Page:Poems Forrest.djvu/17

Blue loin-cloths of the fellahin
 About their lithe, dark bodies set;
The crooked alleys of the town,
 The tracery of a minaret.
Dead cities, where the wild things tread,
And all we ever dreamed or read.
We see the corn jars in the wall,
 The women going to the well,
Prayer-makers crying from a tower,
 We hear the distant camel bell,
And watch, for many a dreaming mile,
Grain barges drifting on the Nile.

We find the Valley of the Kings,
 And all the kings are very still;
They care no more to wander from
 Their rock-hewn caverns in the hill;
Tho' far away, with ghostly hands,
Fair mirage beckons from the sands.
We hear the tinkling waters fall
 Where some green Arab garden glows;
We wing above the shady aisles
 That smell for ever of the rose,
While, just outside the crumbling wall,
Black scorpions in the sunshine sprawl

We feed our oil lamps from the jars
 The Syrian merchant keeps in store;
He spreads for us a rainbow robe
 Some Caliph's lover long since wore.
We shake our heads. Tho' we may roam,
Dream barges carry nothing home!
A little Nubian boy, so black
 From small flat feet to bullet head,