THE IMAM'S PARABLE

Behold, the wind of the Desert rose,

Khamsin, in a shroud of sand,

And swept the Libyan waste, across

To far Somali-land.

His voice was thick with the drouth of death

And smote the earth as a burning breath,

Or as a curse which Allah saith

Unto a demon-band.

The caravan from the oasis

Of palm-engirt Kûrkûr

Shuddered and couched in shaken heaps,

The horror to endure.

Its mighty Sheik, like a soul in Hell

Who longs for the lute of Israfel,

Longed for the trickle of Keneh's well,

Imperishably pure!

Three days he longed, and the wind three days

About him whirled the shroud.

Then did a shrill dawn bring the sun —

And a gaunt vulture-crowd.

A few bleak bones on the Desert still

Lie for the Judgment Day to thrill

Again into life — if Allah will:

Let not your heart be proud.