In the Harara

UNCUMBERED and supine I lie,
An azure dome my mimic sky ;
Smooth, shining walls around I see,
As white as new-cut ivory,
Save where one sinuous purple line
Creeps up the marble like a vine.
The crystal stream that, o’er me runs
Has felt the glow of Syrian suns,
And swift through all my being flows
Not the keen chill of Hermon’s snows,
But such a latent fire as sleeps
Within the grape on Lebanon steeps.

Now comes my genie of the ring
A lighted nargileh to bring;
Against my longing lips I set
Its deftly polished tube of jet.
The quiet water in the bowl
Seems suddenly to own a soul :
The bubbles form, and swell, and break,
And incoherent murmurs make,
While visions fair before my eyes
In upward-curling clouds arise ;
I catch the soothing scent divine
Of Latakia rich and fine.

Oh, is it strange I should forget
The world of turmoil and of fret, —
For one sweet hour should play no part,
But be a Syrian to the heart!
Clasp idleness unto my breast,
And drain the very dregs of rest;
Know all the joy that Haroun knew,
And feel the power of Timur too!
But dreams have end, and once again
I rouse me to life’s real domain,
To hold forever more in fee
The Orient’s charm and mystery.