ALI.
Hot smoked the hills, a sultry breath;Hot lay the city underneath.The tired slaves dropped from the handThe heavy peacock plumes they fanned;Or brought, with languid step and slow,The lavendered and sugared snow;Or swept aside, fold over fold,The curtains of the cloth of gold,Where lay the king, with fevered mouth,In his pavilion to the south.
When, like the answer to some prayer,Crept a soft rustle on the air,Up from the gardens stole a breezeAcross the gilded lattices,And waved the perfumed fountains' flowLike shining ribbons to and fro;And sighed across the king's reposeThe breath of jasmine and of rose,
