MORNING IN CONSTANTINOPLE

SHE has an early morning of her own,

A blending of the mist and sea and sun

Into an undistinguishable one,

And Saint Sophia, from her lordly throne

Rises above the opalescent cloud,

A shadowy dome and soaring minaret

Visable though the base be hidden yet

Beneath the veiling wreaths of milky shroud,

As some dark Turkish beauty haughtily

Glances above the yashmak's snowy fold.

— Beyond Stamboul's long stretch, a bar of gold

Falls from the sun across the distant sea.