  Behold, the wind of the Desert rose, Khamsin, in a shroud of sand, And swept the Libyan waste, across To far Somali-land. His voice was thick with the drouth of death And smote the earth as a burning breath, Or as a curse which Allah saith Unto a demon-band. The caravan from the oasis Of palm-engirt KÛrkÛr Shuddered and couched in shaken heaps, The horror to endure. Its mighty Sheik, like a soul in Hell Who longs for the lute of Israfel, Imperishably pure! Three days he longed, and the wind three days About him whirled the shroud. Then did a shrill dawn bring the sun— And a gaunt vulture-crowd. A few bleak bones on the Desert still Lie for the Judgment Day to thrill Again into life—if Allah will: Let not your heart be proud. |
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