OUR instincts, not our memories, protest We are not wholly of this desert race Nor Bedouin born. Our infant lips were pressed To fairer bosoms formed with finer grace. Yet you and I, though aliens, have known And felt the allurement of the wilderness; Drawn eerie comfort from the bleachéd bone, Since we in turn may share the grim caress Of this our tawny mistress, and may lie At last upon her large, indifferent breast. Meanwhile we watch the mighty sunrise dye The hedgeless east, and yield to all the zest And glamour of great dawns. And we can fly Our strong-winged falcon, Hope, and bid her stray Through all the spaces of Infinity. Not yet the sand hath choked us. We can play, (For thou hast fashioned me a lute,) and sing Faint songs beneath the tangled stars at night, And marvel what the next day's march may bring, And if to-morrow show the hills in sight. Not all meet death in deserts. Men have found Strange midnoon shelter, stranger midnight blaze, Clear springs and manna thick upon the ground, Undreamt-ofcaravans and homeward ways. |