WE grow to the sound of the wind Playing his flutes in our hair, Palm tree daughters, Brown flesh Bedouin, Fed with light By our gold father; We are loved of the free-tented, The sons of space, the hall-forgetters, The wide handed, the bright-sworded Masters of horses. Who has rested in the shade of our palms Shall hear us murmur ever above his sleep. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ABU SALAMMAMM - A SONG OF EMPIRE by EZRA POUND MY OLD KENTUCKY HOME by STEPHEN COLLINS FOSTER TO JANE: KEEN STARS by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY RECONCILIATION by WALT WHITMAN A SONG FOR MY FELLOWS by ALEXANDER ANDERSON MOVE UPWARD by ALEXANDER ANDERSON |