Classic Poem

Due east, beyond the main, lies Bojador,
Where Afric's coast affronts the setting sun,
And there, hard by, through desert rocks do run
Thy waters, River of the Golden Ore;
And there, by night, upon the tented shore
The Moslem halts his nomad caravan,
There mutters his Arabian Alkoran,
While these same stars their solemn splendor pour
On him, as here they do on me and mine.
I dream across the Atlantic, and I stand,
To-morrow morning, in the sudden shine
Of Orient day, and gaze across the sand
Toward Mecca, with my brethren:—for the shrine
Of the True God is found in every land.