At dusk as wild geese winged their aery way Upon the sunset over proud Peking, To where, darker than jade, the mountains lay, Set in the misty gold of dying day, I stood upon the mighty Tartar wall By the great-towered gate, the Ch'en, and felt The yellow myriads move to it and melt, As in some opiate's sleep imagining. And slowly through there came a caravan Of swinging camels out of far Thibet, Upon their tawny flanks the foam still wet And in their eyes the desert's ancient span. What dreams they bore to me I now forget, But through me rang the name of Kubla Khan. |