Caught in the wierd rug's thralling snare,
But, ah! I cannot catch the drift
Of mystic signs
That fashioned forth the Moslem's prayer.
But, ah! I cannot catch the drift
Of mystic signs
That fashioned forth the Moslem's prayer.
Prayed he that to his aged woes
The Prophet's helping hand be lent,
As answering the muezzin's call
His wing-ed words to Allah went?
Or yet—or yet, not old, but young—
Young, with his pagan blood on fire
With life and love's eternal quest,
Prayed he instead
To gain the port of Heart's Desire?
The Prophet's helping hand be lent,
As answering the muezzin's call
His wing-ed words to Allah went?
Or yet—or yet, not old, but young—
Young, with his pagan blood on fire
With life and love's eternal quest,
Prayed he instead
To gain the port of Heart's Desire?
The while—his face set toward the East—
He wore the rug smooth with his knees,
Did he recall some harem girl
Whose eyes flashed him love's dear decrees?
I cannot tell; the rug gives back
No faintest whisper of his prayer;
He may have asked his rival's blood
On whetted blade,
Or yielded him to love's despair.
He wore the rug smooth with his knees,
Did he recall some harem girl
Whose eyes flashed him love's dear decrees?
I cannot tell; the rug gives back
No faintest whisper of his prayer;
He may have asked his rival's blood
On whetted blade,
Or yielded him to love's despair.
I only know that o'er the leagues
Of sand that's gold and sea that's brown
A subtle thread spins in my brain
To far Bokhara's sunlit town.
And visions haunt me like dim dreams
Of sand that's gold and sea that's brown
A subtle thread spins in my brain
To far Bokhara's sunlit town.
And visions haunt me like dim dreams
28
