'Tis Omar, the tentmaker, Who sits within the door 'Midst oriental splendor, Rugs line the couch, the floor. His clients number Princes, A King, an Emperor. In all the world none other— There is but one Omar. 'Tis a name to conjure with, Where Kings must favors ask; Proud heads bow at Omar's door Who seek a tentman's task. Omar, thou art a master, Thy tents breathe poetry, Subtle whispers to the soul Of untold mystery. Temples, mosques, and minarets Weave a strange fantasy, Incense doth my senses sway, The mystic shrine I see, Mecca's burning sands—Omar, This prayer I breathe for thee, Allah and Mohammed guard Thy tent while guest with me. |