POETRY OF SMOKE. 



LATAKIA. 



WHEN all the panes are hung wfth frost 



Wild wizard-work of silver lace, 

 I draw my sofa on the rug, 



Bef re the ancient chimney-plac>a 

 Upon th : painted tiles are mosques 

 And minarets, and here and there 

 A blind muezzin lifts his hands, 



And calls the faithful unto prayer. 

 Folded in idle, twilight dreams, 

 I hear the hemlock chirp and sing, 

 As if within its ruddy core 



It held the happy heart of spring. 

 Ferdousi never sang like that, 



Nor Saadi grave, nor Hafiz gay ; 

 I lounge, and blow white rings of smoke, 

 And watch them rise and float away. 



The curling wreaths like turbans seem 



Of silent slaves that come and go 

 Or Viziers, packed with craft and crime. 

 Whom I behead from time to time, 



With pipe-stem, at a single blow. 

 And now and then a lingering cloud 



Takes gracious form at my desire, 

 And at my side my lady stands, 

 Unwinds her veil with snowy hands 



A shadowy shape, a breath of fire I 

 Oh, Love ! if you were only here, 



Beside me in this mellow light, 



