Tall in his tawny turban,

A sultan 'mid his bands,

In my garden, old and urban,

The tiger-lily stands.

The poppies there that glisten,

Whose gaudy garments glow,

Are eunuchs who guard and listen

Round his seraglio

Of roses, myrrhed and musky;

Some whiter than a dove,

And others, deep and dusky,

His odalisks of love.

Circassian-white and slender,

His dancing-girls and slaves,

To the August-lilies tender,

His haughty hand he waves.

While he watches them, nothing missing,

In her bower of bloom on high,

His favorite rose is kissing

A Bedouin butterfly.