Classic Poem

Strange was his garb, just a thing of tatters;
Strange was his lute, with its rude, rough strings;
Strange was his voice, but, forsooth, what matters
If the minstrel touches the heart when he sings!
And while over us, like a cresset, hung
The star of love, thus the minstrel sung

Love, you come as the swallows
Out of the far away,
Out of the dream-dim hollows
Beyond the night and the day.

Like a lotus flower your face is,
Bright as the moon is bright,
And you make the desert places
A vision of lost delight!

Your blushes are filched from under
The skin of the pomegranate;
Your eyes are like wells of wonder;
Your lips bear the words of fate!

You banish brooding and sorrow,
And the djinns of black despair,
And we fain would forget to-morrow
In the shadow of your hair.

He ceased, and we heard the camels moaning,
And the jackals bark, as the night grew long;
And then to the desert wind's intoning
We slept, and dreamed of the minstrel's song!