What bring ye me, O camels, across the southern desert, The wan and parching desert, pale beneath the dusk? Ye great slow-moving ones, faithful as care is faithful, Uncouth as dreams may be, sluggish as far-off ships,— What bring ye me, O camels? “We bring thee gold like sunshine, saving that it warms not; And rarest purple bring we, as dark as all the garnered Bloom of many grape-vines; and spices subtly mingled For a lasting savor: the precious nard and aloes; The bitter-sweet of myrrh, like a sorrow having wings; Ghostly breath of lilies bruised—how white they were!— And the captive life of many a far rose-garden. Jewels bring we hither, surely stars once fallen, Torn again from darkness: the sunlit frost of topaz, Moon-fire pent in opals, pearls that even the sea loves. Webs of marvel bring we, broideries that have drunken Deep of all life-color from a thousand lives,— Each the royal cere-cloth of a century. We come! What wouldst thou more?” All this dust, these ashes, have ye brought so far? All these days, these years, have I waited in the sun? I would have had the wingëd Mirage of yonder desert.
Caravans
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