CONSTANTINOPLE

FOR years it had been neglected,

This wilderness garden of ours,

And its ruin had shone reflected

In its pools through abandoned hours.

For none had cared for its beauty

Till we came, the strangers, the Giaours,

And none had thought of a duty

Towards its squandering flowers.

Of broken wells and fountains

There were half a dozen or more,

And, beyond the sea, the mountains

Of that far Bithynian shore

Were blue in the purple distance

And white was the cap they wore,

And never in our existence

Had life seemed brighter before!

And the fruit-trees grew in profusion,

Quince and pomegranate and wine,

And the roses in rich confusion

With the lilac intertwine,

And the Banksia rose, the creeper,

Which is golden like yellow wine,

Is surely more gorgeous and deeper

In this garden of mine and thine.

And the little bright flowers in the grasses,

Cyclamen, daffodil,

Are crushed by the foot that passes,

But seem to grow thicker still;

In the cool grey fig-tree's shadows

They grow at their own free will,

In the grass as in English meadows,

On the slope of an English hill.

Is it best, when the lone flute-player

Wanders by with his strange little tune

And the muezzin sings out for prayer

Thrice daily his Arabic rune:

Once, when the sunset has faded,

Once in the brilliant noon,

Or once in the daybreak, rose-shaded.

A farewell to the dying moon?