Upon a hill in Thessaly
Stand broken columns in a line
About a cold forgotten shrine
Beneath a moon in Thessaly. ...

A storm is riding on the tide,
Grey is the day, and grey the sky,
Far off the seagulls wheel and cry, —
A storm draws near upon the tide. ...

A city lifts its minarets
To winds that from the desert sweep,
And prisoned Arab women weep
Below the domes and minarets. ...

But in the world there is no place
So desolate as your tragic face.