The flowers bloom in the Desert joyously. They do not weary themselves with questioning ; They are careless whether they be seen, or praised. They blossom unto life perfectly and unto death perfectly,
leaving nothing unsaid. They spread a voluptuous carpet for the feet of the Wind And to the frolic Breezes which overleap them, they
whisper: "Stay a moment. Brother ; plunder us of our passion ; "Our day is short, but our beauty is eternal."
Never have I found a place, or a season, without beauty. Neither the sea, where the white stallions champ their
bits and rear against their bridles. Nor the Desert, bride of the Sun, which sits scornful,
apart, Like an unwooed Princess, careless ; indifferent. She spreads her garments, wonderful beyond estimation. And embroiders continually her mantle. She is a queen, seated on a throne of gold In the Hall of Silence. She insists upon humility. She insists upon meditation. She insists that the soul be free. She requires an answer. She demands the final reply to thoughts which cannot be
answered. She lights the Sun for a torch And sets up the great cliffs as sentinels ; The morning and the evening are curtains before her
chambers. She displays the stars as her coronet. She is cruel and invites victims. Restlessly moving her wrists and ankles, Which are loaded with sapphires. Her brown breasts flash with opals. She slays those who fear her,
