ORIENTAL ROMANCE

Beyond lost seas of summer she

Dwelt on an island of the sea,

Last scion of that dynasty,

Queen of a race forgotten long.—

With eyes of light and lips of song,

From seaward groves of blowing lemon,

She called me in her native tongue,

Low-leaned on some rich robe of Yemen.

I was a king. Three moons we drove

Across green gulfs, the crimson clove

And cassia spiced, to claim her love.

Packed was my barque with gums and gold;

Rich fabrics; sandalwood, grown old

With odor; gems; and pearls of Oman,—

Than her white breasts less white and cold;—

And myrrh, less fragrant than this woman.

From Bassora I came. We saw

Her eagle castle on a claw

Of soaring precipice, o'erawe

The surge and thunder of the spray.

Like some great opal, far away

It shone, with battlement and spire,

Wherefrom, with wild aroma, day

Blew splintered lights of sapphirine fire.

Lamenting caverns dark, that keep

Sonorous echoes of the deep,

Led upward to her castle steep....

Fair as the moon, whose light is shed

In Ramadan, was she, who led

My love unto her island bowers,

To find her.... lying young and dead

Among her maidens and her flowers.