Classic Poem

As supple as a tiger's skin
With wine hues and ochre blent,
It lies upon my polished floor —
Four square feet of the orient,
No more than that, yet space enough
On which to build a wonder-dream
Of that far town which, half asleep
And half a myth
Lies 'neath the crescent's golden gleam.

I see Bokhara's minarets
Like sentries o'er the housetops stand,
And far away the dropping sky
Melt in the desert's rippled sand.
Through silence born of noonday heat
And swooning radiance of the air,
I hear, from high muezzin tower
Like conscience-cry
The Moslem's solemn call to prayer.

And quick unrolling this bright rug,
I see its owner spread it down
Where'er he stands — in porch or street —
And turn his face toward Mecca's town.
On this straight line of woven flame
His knees by Allah's law must rest;
His feet and hands these squares must touch,
And in this niche
Of softened hues his brow be pressed.

And prostrate thus, he makes his plea
To Allah five times e'er the sun
A flaming chariot through the sky
Its course from dawn to dusk has run.
This much I see with half-shut eyes,
Caught in the weird rug's thralling snare,
But ah! I cannot catch the drift
Of mystic signs
That fashioned forth the Moslem's prayer.

Prayed he that to his aged woes
The prophet's helping hand be lent,
As answering the muezzin's call
His winged words to Allah went?
Or yet — or yet, not old, but young —
Young with his pagan blood on fire
With life and love's eternal quest,
Prayed he instead
To gain the port of Heart's Desire?

The while, his face set toward the East,
He wore the rug smooth with his knees,
Did he recall some harem girl
Whose eyes flashed him love's dear decrees?
I cannot tell; the rug gives back
No faintest whisper of his prayer;
He may have asked his rival's blood
On whetted blade,
Or yielded him to love's despair.

I only know that o'er the leagues
Of sand that's gold, and sea that's brown
Asubtle thread spins in my brain
To far Bokhara's sunlit town.
And visions haunt me like dim dreams
Whose baffling veil may ne'er be rent
I only know, or rich or poor,
I hold in fief
Four square feet of the orient.