Cafes in Damascus
LANGUIDLY the night-wind bloweth
From the gardens round,
Where the clear Barrada floweth
With a lulling sound.
Not the lute-note’s sweet shiver
Can such music find,
As is on a wandering river,
On a wandering wind.
There the Moslem leaneth, dreaming
O’er the inward world,
While around the fragrant steaming
Of the smoke is curled.
Rising from the coffee berry,
Dark grape of the South;
Or the pipe of polished cherry,
With its amber mouth.
Cooled by passing through the water,
Gurgling as it flows—
Scented by the Summer’s daughter,
June’s impassioned rose.
By that rose’s spirit haunted
Are the dreams that rise,
Of far lands, and lives enchanted,
And of deep black eyes.
Thus with some sweet dream’s assistance,
Float they down life’s stream;
Would to heaven our whole existence
Could be such a dream!
